The backs of the leather-bound volumes in the many book-cases gleamed also, but unaggressively, with the mellow sheen--as might fancifully be figured--of the ripe and tolerant wisdom their pages enshrined.

The pearl-grey porcelain company of Chinese monsters, saints and godlings, ranged above them placid, mysteriously smiling, gleamed as well.
For a time, silence, along with these various gleamings, sensibly, even a little uncannily, held possession of the room.

Then Charles Verity moved, stiffly, and for once awkwardly, all of a piece.

Backed against the mantelshelf, throwing his right arm out along it sharply and heavily--careless of the safety of clock and of ornaments--as though overtaken by sudden weakness and seeking support.
"Faircloth?
Of course, his name is Faircloth." he repeated absently.
"Yes, of course." But whatever the nature of the weakness assailing him, it soon, apparently, passed.

He stood upright, his face, perhaps, a shade more colourless and lean, but in expression fully as arrogant and formidably calm as before.
"Very well, Miss Bilson," he began.