On one side raged a discussion as to how far the decoration of a plain surface should go--"Roughing it," some of them called it.

At the end of the table two men were wrangling as to whether the upper or the lower half of a tall structure should have its vertical lines broken; and, if so, by what.

Further down high-keyed voices were crying out against the abomination of the flat roof on the more costly buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would wake up to the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less ugly--even if it did cost a little more.

Still a third group were in shouts of laughter over a story told by one of the staff who had just returned from an inspection trip west.
Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a moment a couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to each other in mock ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from the borrowed flagons, then glanced toward his friend Minott, just then the centre of a cyclone that was stirring the group midway the table.
"Come over here, Garry," he called, half rising to his feet to attract his friend's attention.
Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the story had been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the table.
"Garry," he whispered, "I want to introduce you to Mr.Grayson--the very dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life.

Sits right next to me." "What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high collar ?" muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye.