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The talk was at an end. The display was over. Abruptly Caterham seemed
to contract, to shrivel up into a yellow-faced, fagged-out,
middle-sized, middle-aged man. He stepped forward, as if he were
stepping out of a picture, and with a complete assumption of that
friendliness that lies behind all the public conflicts of our race, he
held out his hand to Redwood.
As if it were a matter of course, Redwood shook hands with him for the
second time.
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