His complexion was poor, however, his neck thick, and he wore a necktie of red silk drawn through a diamond ring.
There was nothing in his appearance which grated particularly upon Mr.Weatherley's sense of seemliness.

Nevertheless, he shook his head.

He was beginning to recognize his wife's point of view, even though it still seemed strange to him.
"I wasn't thinking of young Tidey at all," he declared, bluntly.

"I was thinking of that young fellow at the end of the desk there--chap with a queer name--Chetwode, I think you call him." Mr.Jarvis, human automaton though he was, permitted himself an exclamation of surprise.
"Young Chetwode! Surely you're not in earnest, sir!" "Why not ?" Mr.Weatherley demanded.

"There's nothing against him, is there ?" "Nothing against him, precisely," Mr.Jarvis confessed, "but he's at the lowest desk in the office, bar Smithers.