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The Chancelier d’Ambassade entrusted with the conduct of this interview seemed to find it too much for him. “I think,” he said, “that you had better see Mr Vladimir. Yes, decidedly I think you ought to see Mr Vladimir. Be good enough to wait here,” he added, and went out with mincing steps. At once Mr Verloc passed his hand over his hair. A slight perspiration had broken out on his forehead.
Privy Councillor Wurmt, Chancelier d’Ambassade, was rather short-sighted. This meritorious official laying the papers on the table, disclosed a face of pasty complexion and of melancholy ugliness surrounded by a lot of fine, long dark grey hairs, barred heavily by thick and bushy eyebrows.
The room was large, with three windows; and a young man with a shaven, big face, sitting in a roomy arm-chair before a vast mahogany writing-table, said in French to the Chancelier d’Ambassade, who was going out with, the papers in his hand: “You are quite right, mon cher. He’s fat—the animal.” Mr Vladimir, First Secretary, had a drawing-room reputation as an agreeable and entertaining man.
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