He looked at his watch. In a quarter of an hour he was due at the General Meeting of the New Colliery Company⁠—one of Uncle Jolyon’s concerns; he should see Uncle Jolyon there, and say something to him about Bosinney⁠—he had not made up his mind what, but something⁠—in any case he should not answer this letter until he had seen Uncle Jolyon. He got up and methodically put away the draft of his defence. Going into a dark little cupboard, he turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece of brown Windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. Then he brushed his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned down the light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at half-past two, stepped into the Poultry.

It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in Ironmonger Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, the General Meeting was always held. Old Jolyon had from the first set his face against the Press. What business⁠—he said⁠—had the Public with his concerns!