slightly. His thin lips said nothing, but when Lord Stranleigh mentioned his holding shares in the Great Southern the glittering eyes lit up and seemed to proclaim with great plainness:
"Sir, if you think that twenty thousand shares entitle you to interfere with my decisions you will speedily be disillusionised."
Mr. Preston, after bowing to Lord Stranleigh, turned his face towards Peter Mackeller as if to say:
"Get this talk done with as quickly as possible."
Throughout the interview he ignored Sir Phillip Sanderson, a portly gentleman with a red face that grew redder and bushy hair of the purest white. Lord Stranleigh estimated him as a man who most of his life had been in supreme command, therefore impatient of restraint. He adjudged him to be of irascible temper and an excellent critic of good wine, possibly a gourmand, and probably an appreciator of the best brand of cigars; nevertheless, a hale, genial old fellow if his corns were not trampled upon. The already ruddy face had become almost purple under the superior non-recognition of the General Manager. Peter himself, now that his opportunity had come, seemed almost tongue-tied when confronted by this boreal human iceberg. Very lamely he presented his plea. Lord Stranleigh watched this play of cold storage emotion with amused indifference which, however,
