The conversation grew animated, and was seasoned with many allusions and jests wholly unintelligible to the stranger, who held his peace, and devoted himself to observation.

First, there was the book-keeper, Liebold, a little, elderly man, with a gentle voice and a modest smile, that seemed to apologize to the world at large for his having taken the liberty of existing in it.

He said but little, and had a way of always retracting what he had advanced, as, for example, "I admit this tea is too weak; though, to be sure, strong tea is unwholesome," and so on.

Next came Mr.Pix, the despotic wielder of the black pencil, a decided kind of man, who seemed to look upon all social relations as mere business details, respectable but trivial.

As a chair was wanting, he sat astride on a small table.