Merton was reading the newspaper in the office, expecting a client. Miss
Blossom was typewriting in the inner chamber; the door between was open.
The office boy knocked at Merton's outer door, and the sound of that
boy's strangled chuckling was distinctly audible to his employer. There
is something irritating in the foolish merriment of a youthful menial. No
conduct could be more likely than that of the office boy to irritate the
first client, arriving on business of which it were hard to exaggerate
the delicate and anxious nature.
These reflections flitted through Merton's mind as he exclaimed 'Come
in,' with a tone of admonishing austerity.
The office boy entered. His face was scarlet, his eyes goggled and ran
water. Hastily and loudly exclaiming 'Mr. and Miss Apsley' (which ended
with a crow) he stuffed his red pocket handkerchief into his mouth and
escaped. At the sound of the names, Merton had turned towards the inner
door, open behind him, whence came a clear and piercing trill of feminine
laughter from Miss Blossom. Merton angrily marched to the inner door,
and shut his typewriter in with a bang. His heart burned within him.
Nothing could be so insulting to clients; nothing so ruinous to a nascent
business. He wheeled round to greet his visitors with a face of apology;
his eyes on the average level of the human countenance divine. There was
no human countenance divine. There was no human countenance at that
altitude. His eyes encountered the opposite wall, and a print of 'Mrs.
Pelham Feeding Chickens.'
In a moment his eyes adjusted themselves to a lower elevation. In front
of him were standing, hand in hand, a pair of small children, a boy of
nine in sailor costume, but with bare knees not usually affected by naval
officers, and a girl of seven with her finger in her mouth.
The boy bowed gravely. He was a pretty little fellow with a pale oval
face, arched eyebrows, promise of an aquiline nose, and two large black
eyes. 'I think, sir,' said the child, 'I have the pleasure of redressing
myself to Mr. Gray or Mr. Graham?'
'Graham, at your service,' said Merton, gravely; 'may I ask you and Miss
Apsley to be seated?'
There was a large and imposing arm-chair in green leather; the client's
chair. Mr. Apsley lifted his little sister into it, and sat down beside
her himself. She threw her arms round his neck, and laid her flaxen
curls on his shoulder. Her blue eyes looked shyly at Merton out of her
fleece of gold. The four shoes of the clients dangled at some distance
above the carpet.
'You are the author of this article, I think, Mr. Graham?' said Mr.
Apsley, showing his hand, which was warm, and holding out a little
crumpled ball of paper, not precisely fresh.
Merton solemnly unrolled it; it contained the advertisement of his firm.
'Yes,' he said, 'I wrote that.'
'You got our letters, for you answered them,' said Mr. Apsley, with equal
solemnity. 'Why do you want Bats and me?'
'The lady's name is Bats?' said Merton, wondering why he was supposed to
'want' either of the pair.
'My name is Batsy. I like you: you are pretty,' said Miss Apsley.
Merton positively blushed: he was unaccustomed to compliments so frank
from a member of the sex at an early stage of a business interview. He
therefore kissed his fair client, who put up a pair of innocent damp
lips, and then allowed her attention to be engrossed by a coin on his
watch-chain.
'I don't quite remember your case, sir, or what you mean by saying I
wanted you, though I am delighted to see you,' he said to Mr. Apsley. 'We
have so many letters! With your permission I shall consult the letter
book.'
'The article says "To Parents, Guardians, Children, and others." It was
in print,' remarked Mr. Apsley, with a heavy stress on "children," 'and
she said you wanted _us_.'
The mystified Merton, wondering who 'she' was, turned the pages of the
letter book, mumbling, 'Abernethy, Applecombe, Ap. Davis, Apsley. Here
we are,' he began to read the letter aloud. It was typewritten, which,
when he saw his clients, not a little surprised him.
'Gentlemen,' the letter ran, 'having seen your advertisement in the
_Daily Diatribe_ of to-day, May 17, I desire to express my wish to enter
into communication with you on a matter of pressing importance.--I am, in
the name of my sister, Miss Josephine Apsley, and myself,
'Faithfully yours,
'THOMAS LLOYD APSLEY.'
'That's the letter,' said Mr. Apsley, 'and you wrote to us.'
'And what did I say?' asked Merton.
'Something about preferences, which we did not understand.'
'References, perhaps,' said Merton. 'Mr. Apsley, may I ask whether you
wrote this letter yourself?'
'No; None-so-pretty printed it on a kind of sewing machine. _She_ told
us to come and see you, so we came. I called her None-so-pretty, out of
a fairy story. She does not mind. Gran says she thinks she rather likes
it.'
'I shouldn't wonder if she did,' said Merton. 'But what is her real
name?'
'She made me promise not to tell. She was staying at the Home Farm when
we were staying at Gran's.'
'Is Gran your grandmother?'
'Yes,' replied Mr. Apsley.