Presently he saw that the secretary was producing a fresh file of
papers, and at the same moment, quite inexplicably, his attention
wandered. He had brought out a handkerchief, and while with a slow
mechanical movement he rubbed the palms of his hands, he noticed and
thought about the furniture and decoration of the room. Clock, map,
and calendar; some busts on top of a bookless bookcase; red turkey
carpet, the treacherous parquetry, and these stiff-looking
chairs--really that was all. The emptiness and tidiness surprised him,
and he began to wonder what the Postmaster-General's room was like.
Surely there would be richer furniture and more litter of business
there. Then, with a little nervous jerk, as of his internal machinery
starting again after a breakdown, he felt how utterly absurd it was
to be thinking about chairs and desks at such a moment. He must pull
himself together, or he was going to make an ass of himself.
"Now, if you please." They were calling him to the table. He slowly
marched across to them, and stood with folded hands.
"Well now, Mr. Dale." The Colonel was speaking, while Sir John read
some letters handed to him by the secretary. "We have gone into this
matter very carefully, and I may tell you at once that we have come to
certain conclusions.
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