The managing editor, a pompous, tall, thin man with a drooping frosty mustache, and cold gray eyes in a cold gray face that somehow reminded one of the visage of a walrus, was preparing to go home.
"Well ?" he said, shortly.
He was a man for whom Cleggett had long felt a secret antipathy.

The man was, in short, the petty tyrant of Cleggett's little world.
"Can you spare me a couple of minutes, Mr.Wharton ?" said Cleggett.
But he did not say it with the air of a person who really sues for a hearing.
"Yes, yes--go on." Mr.Wharton, who had risen from his chair, sat down again.

He was distinctly annoyed.

He was ungracious.

He was usually ungracious with Cleggett.