And she waited, sitting by the window which faced the street. On
the buildings opposite she could read the name of another great evening
journal. Why, it was the one which had contained the paragraph she had
read at breakfast! She had bought a copy of it at the station. Its
temperament, she knew, was precisely opposed to that of Mr. Cuthcott's
paper. Over in that building, no doubt there would be the same
strenuously loaded atmosphere, so that if they opened the windows on both
sides little puffs of power would meet in mid-air, above the heads of the
passers-by, as might the broadsides of old three-deckers, above the
green, green sea.

And for the first time an inkling of the great comic equipoise in
Floodgate Street and human affairs stole on Nedda's consciousness. They
puffed and puffed, and only made smoke in the middle! That must be why
Dad always called them: 'Those fellows!' She had scarcely, however,
finished beginning to think these thoughts when a handbell sounded
sharply in some adjoining room, and the young woman nearly fell into her
typewriter. Readjusting her balance, she rose, and, going to the door,
passed out in haste. Through the open doorway Nedda could see a large
and pleasant room, whose walls seemed covered with prints of men standing
in attitudes such that she was almost sure they were statesmen; and, at a
table in the centre, the back of Mr. Cuthcott in a twiddly chair,
surrounded by sheets of paper reposing on the floor, shining like autumn
leaves on a pool of water. She heard his voice, smothery, hurried, but
still pleasant, say: "Take these, Miss Mayne, take these! Begin on them,
begin! Confound it! What's the time?" And the young woman's voice:
"Half past one, Mr. Cuthcott!" And a noise from Mr. Cuthcott's throat
that sounded like an adjuration to the Deity not to pass over something.
Then the young woman dipped and began gathering those leaves of paper,
and over her comely back Nedda had a clear view of Mr. Cuthcott hunching
one brown shoulder as though warding something off, and of one of his
thin hands ploughing up and throwing back his brown hair on one side, and
heard the sound of his furiously scratching pen. And her heart pattered;
it was so clear that he was 'giving them one' and had no time for her.
And involuntarily she looked at the windows beyond him to see if there
were any puffs of power issuing therefrom. But they were closed. She saw
the young woman rise and com