Mr.Cashmore had in fact looked surprised, yet not on the whole so surprised as the young man seemed to have expected of him.

There was almost a quiet grace in the combination of promptitude and diffidence with which Harold took over the responsibility of all proprietorship of the crisp morsel of paper that he slipped with slow firmness into the pocket of his waistcoat, rubbing it gently in its passage against the delicately buff-coloured duck of which that garment was composed.

"So quite too awfully kind of you that I really don't know what to say"-- there was a marked recall, in the manner of this speech, of the sweetness of his mother's droop and the tenderness of her wail.
It was as if he had been moved for the moment to moralise, but the eyes he raised to his benefactor had the oddest effect of marking that personage himself as a theme for the moralist.
Mr.Cashmore, who would have been very red-haired if he had not been very bald, showed a single eye-glass and a long upper lip; he was large and jaunty, with little petulant movements and intense ejaculations that were not in the line of his type.

"You may say anything you like if you don't say you'll repay it.

That's always nonsense--I hate it." Harold remained sad, but showed himself really superior.