Roger, in the office, pondered upon Michael’s words, and knew they were right. He swallowed down his consuming anger, and determined to be discreet in what he said and did. If Otho came down to the mills that morning, well and good. If not, Roger would, he thought, either write to him with his decision, or go and call upon him that evening. With an effort, he mastered the vexation that had been gnawing at his heart, and turned to his work. The morning, which despite the snow, had broken bright, clear, and sharp, clouded over, till everything looked very sad and gray;—the street where the tramping work-people had pounded the snow into a dirty slush; the mill-yard itself; the river flowing sullenly past, deep and flooded. None of them all could be grayer than the spirits of Roger Camm. He began to wonder how it was that he had so little luck, and tried hard to see his way, even for a yard before him, but not with much success. By degrees, to his trenchant mood succeeded one of despondency and aversion to everything. He began to hope then that Otho would not come down; so far from desiring to give him a horsewhipping, he now felt as if it would cost him a disagreeable effort even to look upon his face; he would prefer to write to him, and get the whole thing disposed of without words or glances. This was not to be. About half-past eleven he saw two horsemen enter the yard—Otho Askam and his guest, Gilbert Langstroth. Otho called a man to hold their horses, and they dismounted and entered the office; but not before some conversation had passed between them outside. Roger saw how Gilbert pointed here and there with his whip, and stood reflectively looking about him. Then, after Otho had shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, they came slowly towards the office. Roger felt dreary, cross, and cynical. The effort had to be made, and he was in no mood for making it. The deadly, nauseous flatness which is the reaction and the avenger of strong excitement, had taken possession of him. He scarcely looked up as they entered; barely returned Gilbert’s courteous ‘good morning,’ but he noticed that Otho came in with more swagger than usual, and that in his insolence he did not condescend to utter a greeting of any kind. ‘What business?’ he asked. ‘There are the letters,’ replied Camm, as he pushed them across to him. Otho took them and stood near the fire. Gilbert turned to Roger. ‘I have been talking to Mr. Askam,’ he said; ‘and I find that he has not insured that new machinery that came the other day. I think it ought to be done as soon as possible.’ Otho looked up. ‘What’s that? Oh, insurance! You are at it again.’ ‘I should imagine that Camm would agree with me,’ said Gilbert. ‘Why, of course,’ replied Roger. ‘It is a thing that ought to be done at once, and I have mentioned it several times.’ ‘Do you hear, Otho? Now do be reasonable, and get Camm to write about it at once, and have it settled now.’