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“Good-morning!” he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not.
“Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call this morning.”
“Come this way,” said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner intended to be businesslike.
They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.