He gave no signs of any such knowledge--was dignified, cordial; discussed his breakfast with gusto, opened his letters, and so on.

An anaemic amanuensis was taking notes for appropriate replies.

How could I tell him that I would not do the work, that I was too proud and all the rest of it?
He would have thought me a fool, would have stiffened into hostility, I should have lost my last chance.

And, in the broad light of day, I was loath to do that.
He began to talk about indifferent things; we glided out on to a current of mediocre conversation.

The psychical moment, if there were any such, disappeared.
Someone bearing my name had written to express an intention of offering personal worship that afternoon.