ch faced
the street. On the buildings opposite she could read the name of another
great evening journal. Why, it was the one which had contained the
paragraph she had read at breakfast! She had bought a copy of it at the
station. Its temperament, she knew, was precisely opposed to that of
Mr. Cuthcott's paper. Over in that building, no doubt there would be the
same strenuously loaded atmosphere, so that if they opened the windows
on both sides little puffs of power would meet in mid-air, above the
heads of the passers-by, as might the broadsides of old three-deckers,
above the green, green sea.

And for the first time an inkling of the great comic equipoise in
Floodgate Street and human affairs stole on Nedda's consciousness. They
puffed and puffed, and only made smoke in the middle! That must be why
Dad always called them: 'Those fellows!' She had scarcely, however,
finished beginning to think these thoughts when a handbell sounded
sharply in some adjoining room, and the young woman nearly fell into her
typewriter. Readjusting her balance, she rose, and, going to the door,
passed out in haste. Through the open doorway Nedda could see a large
and pleasant room, whose walls seemed covered with prints of men
standing in attitudes such that she was almost sure they were statesmen;
and, at a table in the centre, the back of Mr. Cuthcott in a twiddly
chair, surrounded by sheets of paper reposing on the floor, shining
like autumn leaves on a pool of water. She heard his voice, smothery,
hurried, but still pleasant, say: "Take these, Miss Mayne, take these!
Begin on them, begin! Confound it! What's the time?" And the young
woman's voice: "Half past one, Mr. Cuthcott!" And a noise from Mr.
Cuthcott's throat that sounded like an adjuration to the Deity not to
pass over something. Then the young woman dipped and began gathering
those leaves of paper, and over her comely back Nedda had a clear view
of Mr. Cuthcott hunching one brown shoulder as though warding something
off, and of one of his thin hands ploughing up and throwing back his
brown hair on one side, and heard the sound of his furiously scratching
pen. And her heart pattered; it was so clear that he was 'giving them
one' and had no time for her. And involuntarily she looked at the
windows beyond him to see if there were any puffs of power issuing
therefrom. But they were closed. She saw the young woman rise and come
back toward her, putting the sheets of paper in order;