In his gait there was a singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful character could move and stand as he did.
His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a pipe, a pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches, all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central table.

Then he drew forward a chair and seated himself.
'Take your top-coat off;' said Reardon.
'Thanks, not this evening.' 'Why the deuce not ?' 'Not this evening, thanks.' The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious.

Biffen had no ordinary coat beneath the other.

To have referred to this fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.
'Let me have your Sophocles,' were the visitor's next words.
Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.
'I prefer the Wunder, please.' 'It's gone, my boy.' 'Gone ?' 'Wanted a little cash.' Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended.
'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry.

Well, this must do.