Books were piled, up and down, in the shelves, they dribbled on
to the floor and lay in little trickling streams across the carpet; old
bundles of papers, yellow with age, tied with string and faded blue
tape, were in heaps upon the window-sill, and in tumbling cascades in
the very middle of the floor; the writing-table itself was so hopelessly
littered with books, sermon papers, old letters and new letters, bottles
of ink, bottles of glue, three huge volumes of a Bible Concordance,
photographs, and sticks of sealing-wax, that the man who could be happy
amid such confusion must surely be a kindly and benevolent creature. How
orderly had been Mr. Lasher's table, with all the pens in rows, and
little sharp drawers that clicked, marked A, B, and C, to put papers
into.
Mr. Trenchard entered.
He was what the room had prophesied--fat, red-faced, bald, extremely
untidy, with stains on his coat and tobacco on his coat, that was
turning a little green, and chalk on his trousers. His eyes shone with
pleased friendliness, but there was a little pucker in his forehead, as
though his life had not always been pleasant.
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