He came this morning even earlier than usual, to be ready for Effie when she came at nine. He had slept off his embarrassment, and was ready in his early morning ebullience to pooh-pooh it. It was stupid to be so extraordinarily sensitive about an aitch. Accent had always troubled him, but he need not overrate its importance, and especially now that he wore the political badge of a democrat, and had acknowledged publicly that his mother was a charwoman. So he was here, installed in his chair with the back of his morning’s work broken, waiting for her when she came. No, she decided, not at all humorous to-day: formidable, in fact. He had all the advantages; he was seated; he was first upon the ground, and that ground his own, and he was abominably awake. He might have run away yesterday, but this was the morning of retrieval. “Good morning,” he said, assuming an attitude of leisure. “Good morning,” she said, then saw that he was looking quizzically at the parcel she carried, as if, she thought, he mistook it for her lunch. “I took the novel home to finish,” she explained nervously, and called herself a fool for giving him this readymade chance to open the subject which of all things she wanted to delay until her suaver hour had come. She might be able to cure him of mud, but a doctor should have a bedside manner, and she distrusted her manners until the landlady’s knock had ceased ringing in her ears. If she had not given him the chance, he would have made it. He gave no quarter to bad starters. Had he known of her weakness, he might have spared her. He might, because she was Effie; but it wasn’t his habit to indulge the weaknesses of others, especially a weakness which he did not share, did not understand, and denied to be anything but sloth. “Yes,” he said encouragingly. “And the verdict?” “Does my verdict matter, Mr. Branstone?” she asked. He hadn’t given her time to get her jacket off! “What? Certainly it matters. I wasn’t asking you to waste your time when I gave you the manuscript to read. The question is whether we ought to publish it, and the answer depends on your opinion.” “Is that quite fair--to the author, I mean? My opinions of novels are inexpert.” “That author can take care of himself very well,” he assured her. “He won’t starve if we refuse his novel.” “I’m afraid my opinions are also intolerant,” she said. “Still,” he smiled, “I should like to hear them.” “They might infuriate you, and--well, I’d rather not be sacked if I can help it.” “We will forget that it is in my power to sack you. Does that satisfy you?” Oh, how she loathed people who could be magnanimous at nine a.m.! “You are being very kind,” she said. “And you are not giving me your opinion. Come, Miss Mannering, you’ve read it. What do you think of it?”