He drifted upstairs to his fellow-tradesmen, and stood for a time staring into the littered street, with its pools of water and extinguished gas lamps. His companions in misfortune resumed a fragmentary disconnected conversation. They touched now on one aspect of the disaster and now on another, and there were intervals of silence. More or less empty cocoa cups were distributed over the table, mantelshelf and piano, and in the middle of the table was a tin of biscuits, into which Mr. Rumbold, sitting round-shoulderedly, dipped ever and again in an absent-minded way, and munched like a distant shooting of coals. It added to the solemnity of the affair that nearly all of them were in their black Sunday clothes; little Clamp was particularly impressive and dignified in a wide open frock coat, a Gladstone-shaped paper collar, and a large white and blue tie. They felt that they were in the presence of a great disaster, the sort of disaster that gets into the papers, and is even illustrated by blurred photographs of the crumbling ruins. In the presence of that sort of disaster all honourable men are lugubrious and sententious. And yet it is impossible to deny a certain element of elation. Not one of those excellent men but was already realising that a great door had opened, as it were, in the opaque fabric of destiny, that they were to get their money again that had seemed sunken for ever beyond any hope in the deeps of retail trade. Life was already in their imagination rising like a Phoenix from the flames. "I suppose there'll be a public subscription," said Mr. Clamp. "Not for those who're insured," said Mr. Wintershed. "I was thinking of them assistants from Mantell and Throbson's. They must have lost nearly everything." "They'll be looked after all right," said Mr. Rumbold. "Never fear." Pause. "_I'm_ insured," said Mr. Clamp, with unconcealed satisfaction. "Royal Salamander." "Same here," said Mr. Wintershed. "Mine's the Glasgow Sun," Mr. Hinks remarked. "Very good company." "You insured, Mr. Polly?" "He deserves to be," said Rumbold. "Ra-ther," said Hinks. "Blowed if he don't. Hard lines it _would_ be--if there wasn't something for him." "Commercial and General," answered Mr. Polly over his shoulder, still staring out of the window. "Oh! I'm all right." The topic dropped for a time, though manifestly it continued to exercise their minds. "It's cleared me out of a lot of old stock," said Mr. Wintershed; "that's one good thing." The remark was felt to be in rather questionable taste, and still more so was his next comment. "Rusper's a bit sick it didn't reach '_im_." Everyone looked uncomfortable, and no one was willing to point the reason why Rusper should be a bit sick.