It seemed he had. He'd been ordered a sea-voyage for his health after his
spell of printing; and his uncle, who was a sea-captain, took him with
him to Hong-Kong in his ship. And he had been all through a cyclone in
the Pacific.

I got him--with some difficulty, for he had become extremely shy--I got
him to tell us about it.

He did. And by the time he had finished with us we had all been through a
cyclone in the Pacific.

It was too much. The little beast could talk almost as well as he wrote.
A fellow who can write like Tasker Jevons has no business to talk at all.

Viola left soon after six. He had outstayed her. I went downstairs with
her. When I came back to him he was still staring at the doorway she had
passed through.

"Who's that girl?" he said.

I said she was my typist.

He meditated, and brought out as the result: "Do you mind telling me how
much she charges you?"

I told him. He looked dejected.

"I can't afford her," he said presently. "No. I can't possibly afford
her. Not yet." He paused. "Do you mind giving me her address?"