'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on.
Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a
queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he
would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with.
The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the
room he thought it the type and paper of the _Gleaner_. His stories,
doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it!
What was the good, if they made him so cross.
'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute--'
'I won't. Don't interrupt me!'
'--I would introduce him.'
Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't
be!....
'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author
of----'
'So I gathered. Keep still!'
Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the
clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the
bedrooms.
'That--that isn't _the_ Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice tinged with
awe.
'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to
wait till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.'
'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he
wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at
least a manner of businesslike calm.
Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He
even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was
trying--trying--to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand
closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately
for some sort of a mental footing.
'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a
drink.'