He was a clean-shaven man, this waiter, with an aristocratic stoop and a face that resembled that of Lord Shaftesbury, the great philanthropist; and Wolf felt an obscure longing to sit opposite him in his own snug parlour⁠—wherever that was⁠—and draw out of him the hidden sources of that superb respectfulness⁠—to be the object of which, even for a brief hour’s tea-drinking, was to be reconciled not only to oneself but also in some curious way to the whole human race!

“We haven’t seen Mr. Urquhart down here lately,” the waiter was saying to Wolf’s new acquaintance. “His health keeps up, I hope, Sir?”

“Perfectly,” responded Mr. Otter. “Perfectly, Stalbridge. I hope you yourself are all right, Stalbridge?”