His shoes seemed to demand a pavement, and his thin grey coat and trousers an office stool.

Althea also eyed his tie with uncertainty.

He wasn't right; he didn't in the least look like Herbert Vaughan, who was elegant, or like Captain Merton, who was easy.

He sat out in the sunlight, undisturbed by it, though he screwed up his features in a very unbecoming way while he talked, the sun in his eyes.

In her cool green shadow, Helen now and then opened her eyes and looked at him, and Althea wished that he would not remain in so resolutely disadvantageous a situation.
'See here, Althea,' he was saying, 'if you've gone so much into this matter'-- the topic was that of sweated industries--'I don't see how you can avoid feeling responsible--making some use of all you know.