We saw it in the paper.

My wife said to me the other morning at breakfast: 'Bob, here's a Mr.Richard Paramor Shelton goin' to be married.

Is that any relative of your Mr.Shelton ?' 'My dear,' I said to her, 'it's the very man!'" It disquieted Shelton to perceive that his old friend did not pass the whole of his life at that table writing in the centre of the room, but that somewhere (vistas of little grey houses rose before his eyes) he actually lived another life where someone called him "Bob." Bob! And this, too, was a revelation.

Bob! Why, of course, it was the only name for him! A bell rang.
"That's your uncle"; and again the head clerk's voice sounded ironical.
"Good-bye, sir." He seemed to clip off intercourse as one clips off electric light.
Shelton left him writing, and preceded the red-haired boy to an enormous room in the front where his uncle waited.
Edmund Paramor was a medium-sized and upright man of seventy, whose brown face was perfectly clean-shaven.

His grey, silky hair was brushed in a cock's comb from his fine forehead, bald on the left side.