They were perhaps all doing too much, but the others did not matter.

Nevertheless, Mr.Cannon advanced to the table buoyant and faintly smiling, straightening his shoulders back, proudly proving to himself and to them that his individual force was inexhaustible.

That straightening of the shoulders always affected Hilda as something wistful, as almost pathetic in its confident boyishness.

It made her feel maternal and say to herself (but not in words) with a sort of maternal superiority: "How brave he is, poor thing!" Yes, in her heart she would apply the epithet 'poor thing' to this grand creature whose superiority she acknowledged with more fervour than anybody.

As for the undaunted straightening of the shoulders, she adopted it, and after a time it grew to be a characteristic gesture with her.
"Well ?" Mr.Cannon greeted them.
"Well," said Arthur Dayson, with a factitious air of treating him as an equal, "I've been round to Bennions and made it clear to him that if he can't guarantee to run off a maximum of two thousand of an eight-page sheet we shall have to try Clayhanger at Bursley, even if it's the last minute." "What did he say ?" "Grunted." "I shall risk two thousand, any way." "Paper delivered, governor ?" Dayson asked in a low voice, leering pawkily, as though to indicate that he was a man who could be trusted to think of everything.
"Will be to-morrow, I think," said Mr.Cannon.