And Edward Henry now observed in a corner of the room a man, standing in front of an easel and sketching somewhat grossly thereon in charcoal.  This man said: 

“If you won’t bother me, Sir John, I won’t bother you.”

“Ah!  Givington!  Ah!  Givington!” murmured Sir John still more airily—­at breakfast he was either airy or nothing.  “You’re getting on in the world.  You aren’t merely an A.R.A.;—­you’re making money!  A year ago you’d never have had the courage to address me in that tone.  Well, I sincerely congratulate you....  Here, Snip, here’s my dentist’s bill—­worry it, worry it!  Good dog!  Worry it!” (The dog growled now over a torn document beneath the table.) “Miss Taft, you might see that a communique goes out to the effect that I gave my first sitting to Mr. Saracen Givington, A.R.A., this morning.  The activities of Mr. Saracen Givington are of interest to the world, and rightly so!  You’d better come round to the other side for the right foot, Mr. Bootmaker.  The journey is simply nothing.”

And then, and not till then, did Sir John Pilgrim turn his large and handsome middle-aged blond face in the direction of Alderman Edward Henry Machin.

“Pardon my curiosity,” said Sir John, “but who are you?”

“My name is Machin—­Alderman Machin,” said Edward Henry.  “I sent up my card and you asked me to come in.”

“Ha!” Sir John exclaimed, seizing an egg.  “Will you crack an egg with me, Alderman?  I can crack an egg with anybody.”

“Thanks,” said Edward Henry.  “I’ll be very glad to.”  And he advanced towards the table.

Sir John hesitated.  The fact was that, though he dissembled his dismay with marked histrionic skill, he was unquestionably overwhelmed by astonishment.  In the course of years he had airily invited hundreds of callers to crack an egg with him—­the joke was one of his favourites—­but nobody had ever ventured to accept the invitation.

“Chung,” he said weakly, “lay a cover for the Alderman.”

Edward Henry sat down quite close to Sir John.  He could discern all the details of Sir John’s face and costume.  The tremendous celebrity was wearing a lounge-suit somewhat like his own, but instead of the coat he had a blue dressing-jacket with crimson facings; the sleeves ended in rather long wristbands, which were unfastened, the opal cuff-links drooping each from a single hole.  Perhaps for the first time in his life Edward Henry intimately understood what idiosyncratic elegance was.  He could almost feel the emanating personality of Sir John Pilgrim, and he was intimidated by it; he was intimidated by its hardness, its harshness, its terrific egotism, its utterly brazen quality.  Sir John’s glance was the most purely arrogant that Edward Henry had ever encountered.  It knew no reticence.  And Edward Henry thought:  “When this chap dies he’ll want to die in public, with the reporters round his bed and a private secretary taking down messages.”