CHAPTER X.
THE GRASS BETWEEN THE FLAG-STONES Yes, it was a curiously unreal world; and, for the first day or two, as Henry, bent, lonely and bewildered, over his desk, studied it furtively with questioning eyes, it seemed to him as though he had strayed into some asylum for the insane, where fantastic interests and mock honours take the place of the real interests and honours of sane human beings.
Part of the business of the firm consisted in the collection of house-rents, frequently entailing visits from tenants and questions of repairs.

A certain Mr.Smith, a wiry little grey-headed man, with a keen face and a decisive manner, looked after this branch; and the gusto with which he did it was one of Henry's earliest and most instructive amazements.

House-repairs were quite evidently his poetry, and he never seemed so happy as when passionately wrangling with a tenant on some question of drains.

The words "cesspool" and "wet-trap"-- words to which I don't pretend to attach any meaning--seemed to be particular favourites of his.

In fact, an hour seldom passed without their falling from his lips.