'
They stood amid a rush of people; the panting tailor clung to his big
companion's sleeve. Gruffly promising to do what he could, Mr. Lott led the
way into the street again, where they planned the rest of their day. By
five o'clock they were at Clapham. Charles Daffy occupied the kind of house
which is known as eminently respectable; it suggested an income of at least
a couple of thousand a year. As they waited for the door to open, Mr. Lott
smote gently on his leg with the new riding-whip. He had been silent and
meditative all the way hither.
A smart maidservant conducted them to the dining-room, and there, in a
minute or two, they were joined by Mr. Charles. No one could have surmised
from this gentleman's appearance that he was the son of the little
tradesman who stood before him; nature had given the younger Mr. Daffy a
tall and shapely person, and experience of life had refined his manners to
an easy assurance he would never have learnt from paternal example. His
smooth-shaven visage, so long as it remained grave, might have been that of
an acute and energetic lawyer; his smile, however, disturbed this
impression, for it had a twinkling insolence, a raffish facetiousness,
incompatible with any sober quality.
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