He pulled out his watch. “I’d hate to be late.”

Then he sat down, and with a lack of preliminaries that was native to him sharply pulled out a bunch of papers from his pocket, looked out one of the sheets, and spread it out before him on the table. It was a large quarto sheet of the best thick paper, with the Royal Arms on it and the heading of the Postmaster-General’s Office. It had on it perhaps twenty lines of clear typescript.

The Postmaster-General had always heard that in critical moments of negotiation it was important to stand up and make the other man sit down. He had always heard that it gave one a dominating position. It was part (he had been told) of the A B C of success. But all this knowledge, though sound enough, availed him nothing; for McAuley said, gently enough, “Sit ye down, Wilfrid. Ye can read it the better so. We can run through it together in a trice.”

So Halterton sat down, drew up his chair, and joined his visitor in studying that typewritten sheet. It was addressed to the Directors of the Durrant Imperial; it began, “Gentlemen,” and it ended, “Your obedient servant.”

When Halterton had read the letter he sighed, and McAuley, by way of contrast, gave a sharp little cough —a cough of half-insinuating command.

“All the main points are there, ye’ll be noting,” he said. “All the main points. ‘Tis quite simple. Just a word o’ memorandum. Now ye’re agreeing to give us the contract—oh! quite general. And its sufficient—oh! we shall be quite content with that to go on with.”

“Yes,” answered Halterton. “Yes … Yes … I think I shall see better with my glasses.”

He pulled out his spectacle case, rubbed the lenses carefully with his handkerchief, put them on, took them off again, rubbed them over a second time, once more put them on very carefully, got the right hook wrong and spent quite a second or two curling it round his ear, while his visitor chafed restrainedly. Then Wilfrid Halterton settled down, not too certainly, to business.

“Yes, it’s quite clear,” he said. “All that you were saying yesterday; it’ll be quite enough for you to act on … when I’ve signed it.” And he sighed again. Then he got up slowly and began pacing the room, keeping his eyes vaguely as he did so on the sheet which McAuley still held down before him with a careful but firm hand and with watchful eyes fixed on the other’s face.

“You see, J.,” said the Postmaster-General, “the Committee have decided against you …”

“We’ve had that out before,” took up McAuley quietly and not unkindly. “We’ve had that out several times already.”

“Of course, the Committee’s report in favour of Reynier’s isn’t public yet … not public …”

“Well, well, it was public enough to make t’other lot jump a shilling the day.” And Mr. McAuley laughed a subdued laugh.

“Well, what I mean. … The way I want to put it,” said Halterton, “is that … of course you’ve pretty well convinced me, but what I mean is, if I decide to go against the Committee. … No, what I mean is, if we, the Department, should finally decide to go against our own Committee … why …”

J. McAuley pulled out his watch again.

“It’s a pity to waste time over these things, Wilfrid,” he said shaking his head, but without emphasis. “Ye’ll not hear anything more, I think, for there’s even nothing more to add. I take it, ‘tis settled. Have you got it on the Order Paper yet?”

“It goes in to-night,” said Halterton.

“Well! There ye are! Didn’t I tell ye it was settled?”

“Yes, but one could always hold it up … delay debate, I mean.”

“Oh! Come man!” said McAuley, still gently, “all this is great waste o’ time, surely. ’Twas all fixed yesterday.”

“McAuley,” said the Postmaster-General, sitting down again and putting his spectacles away, and looking towards the door a moment, “have you brought anything in writing? I mean … something for me? We’ve had nothing in set terms as yet, you know. Not on that point. My point.”

“No … no,” said J., more slowly than he had yet spoken.