"This is Mr. Wrissell," said Mr. Slosson with a gesture from which confusion was not absent. "Good morning," said the advancing Mr. Rollo Wrissell, and he said it with an accent more Kensingtonian than any accent that Edward Henry had ever heard. His lounging and yet elegant walk assorted well with the accent. His black clothes were loose and untidy. Such boots as his could not have been worn by Edward Henry even in the Five Towns without blushing shame, and his necktie looked as if a baby or a puppy had been playing with it. Nevertheless, these shortcomings made absolutely no difference whatever to the impressiveness of Mr. Rollo Wrissell, who was famous for having said once: "I put on whatever comes to hand first, and people don’t seem to mind." Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to one of the seven great families which once governed--and, by the way, still do govern--England, Scotland, and Ireland. The members of these families may be divided into two species: those who rule, and those who are too lofty in spirit even to rule--those who exist. Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to the latter species. His nose and mouth had the exquisite refinement of the descendant of generations of art-collectors and poet-patronisers. He enjoyed life, but not with rude activity, like the grosser members of the ruling caste, rather with a certain rare languor. He sniffed and savoured the whole spherical surface of the apple of life with those delicate nostrils rather than bit into it. His one conviction was that in a properly managed world nothing ought to occur to disturb or agitate the perfect tranquillity of his existing. And this conviction was so profound, so visible even in his lightest gesture and glance, that it exerted a mystic influence over the entire social organism, with the result that practically nothing ever did occur to disturb or agitate the perfect tranquillity of Mr. Rollo Wrissell’s existing. For Mr. Rollo Wrissell the world was indeed almost ideal. Edward Henry breathed to himself: "This is the genuine article." And, being an Englishman, he was far more impressed by Mr. Wrissell than he had been by the much vaster reputations of Rose Euclid, Seven Sachs, Mr. Slosson, senior. At the same time he inwardly fought against Mr. Wrissell’s silent and unconscious dominion over him, and all the defiant Midland belief that one body is as good as anybody else surged up in him--but stopped at his lips. "Please don’t rise," Mr. Wrissell entreated, waving both hands. "I’m very sorry to hear of this unhappy complication," he went on to Edward Henry with the most adorable and winning politeness. "It pains me." (His martyred expression said: "And really I ought not to be pained.") "I’m quite convinced that you are here in absolute good faith--the most absolute good faith, Mr.--" "Machin," suggested Mr. Slosson.