He was leaning back in his chair now, his hands drooping to his side, looking precisely what he was--an ungraceful, commonplace little person, without taste or culture, upon whom even a good tailor seemed to have wasted his efforts.

A certain pomposity which in a way became the man--proclaimed his prosperity and redeemed him from complete insignificance--had for a moment departed.

He was like a pricked bladder.

Arnold could scarcely help feeling sorry for him.
"I shouldn't allow these things to worry me, if I were you, sir," Arnold suggested respectfully.

"If there is anything which you don't understand, I should ask for an explanation.