The veins of his forehead were dilated,
and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think of a
racing horse.
'Are you too busy to talk?' asked Biffen, going to his side.
'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in
alarm. 'For the love of Heaven don't put me out! A quarter of an
hour!'
'All right. I'll come up again.'
The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers.
'Now let's try him again,' said Biffen, when considerably more
than the requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr
Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back
his coat sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the
slips of completed manuscript. Biffen presented his companion,
and Mr Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality.
'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work.
'The first instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire
Weekly Herald." Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious,
with the omission of sundry little personal failings which are
nothing to the point. I call it "Through the Wilds of Literary
London.
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