She stood before us looking very composed as she gave us good morning. Sabri cleared his throat, and picking up the great key very delicately between finger and thumb -- as if it were of the utmost fragility -- put it down again on the edge of the desk nearest her with the air of a conjurer making his opening dispositions. 'We are speaking about your house,' he said softly, in a voice ever so faintly curdled with menace. 'Do you know that all the wood is...' he suddenly shouted the last word with such force that I nearly fell off my chair, 'rotten!' And picking up the key he banged it down to emphasise the point. The woman threw up her head with contempt and taking up the key also banged it down in her turn exclaiming: 'It is not.' 'It is.' Sabri banged the key. 'It is not.' She banged it back. 'It is.' A bang. 'It is not.' A counter-bang. All this was certainly not on a very intellectual level, and made me rather ill at ease. I also feared that the key itself would be banged out of shape so that finally none of us would be able to get into the house. But these were the opening chords, so to speak, the preliminary statement of theme. The woman now took the key and held it up as if she were swearing by it. 'The house is a good house,' she cried. Then she put it back on the desk. Sabri took it up thoughtfully, blew into the end of it as if it were a sixshooter, aimed it and peered along it as if along a barrel. Then he put it down and fell into an abstraciton. 'And suppose we wanted the house.' he said, 'which we don't, what would you ask for it?' 'Eight hundred pounds.' Sabri gave a long and stagy laugh, wiping away imaginary tears and repeating 'Eight hundred pounds' as if it were the best joke in the world. He laughed at me and I laughed at him, a dreadful false laugh. He slapped his knee. I rolled about in my chair as if on the verge of acute gastritis. We laughed until we were exhausted. Then we grew serious again. Sabri was still as fresh as a daisy. I could see that. He had put himself into the patient contemplative state of mind of a chess player. 'Take the key and go,' he snapped suddenly, and handing it to her, swirled round in his swivel chair to present her with his back then as suddenly he completed the circuit and swivelled round again. 'What!' he said with surprise. 'You haven't gone.' In truth there had hardly been time for the woman to go. But she was somewhat slow-witted, though obstinate as a mule: that was clear. 'Right,' she now said in a ringing tone, and picking up the key put it into her bosom and turned about. She walked off stage in a somewhat lingering fashion. 'Take no notice, 'whispered Sabri and busied himself with his papers. The woman stopped irresolutely outside the shop, and was here joined by her husband who began to talk to her in a low cringing voice, pleading with her. He took her by the sleeve and led her unwillingly back into the shop where we sat pointedly reading letters. 'Ah! It's you,' said Sabri with well-simulated surprise. 'She wishes to discuss some more,' explained the cobbler in a weak conciliatory voice, Sabri sighed. 'What is there to speak of? She takes me for a fool.' Then he suddenly turned to her and bellowed. 'Two hundred pounds and not a piastre more.' It was her turn to have a paroxysm of false laughter, but this was rather spoiled by her husband who started plucking at her sleeve as if he were persuading her to be sensible. Sabri was not slow to notice this. 'You tell her,' he said to the man. 'You are a man and these things are clear to you. She is only a woman and does not see the truth. Tell her what it is worth!' The writer felt 'ill at ease' because ______.