The rich aroma of an expensive cigar hung about the atmosphere of Mr.
Slotman's office. This and his clothes, and the large diamond ring that
twinkled on his finger, proclaimed him a person of opulence.

The door opened and a girl came in; she carried a notebook and her head
very high. She trod like a young queen, and in spite of the poor black
serge dress she wore, there was much of regal dignity about her. Dark
brown hair that waved back from a broad and low forehead, a pair of
lustrous eyes filled now with contempt and aversion, eyes shielded by
lashes that, when she slept, lay like a silken fringe upon her cheeks.
Her nose was redeemed from the purely classical by the merest suggestion
of tip-tiltedness, that gave humour, expression and tenderness to the
whole face--tenderness and sweetness that with strength was further
betrayed by the finely cut, red-lipped mouth and the strong little chin,
carried so proudly on the white column of her neck.

Her figure was that of a young goddess, and a goddess she looked as she
swept disdainfully into Mr. Philip Slotman's office, shorthand notebook
in her hand.

"I want you to take a letter to Jarvis and Purcell, Miss Meredyth," he
said. "Please sit down. Er--hum--'Dear Sirs, With regard to your last
communication received on the fourteenth instant, I beg--'"

Mr. Slotman moved, apparently negligently, from his leather-covered
armchair. He rose, he sauntered around the desk, then suddenly he flung
off all pretence at lethargy, and with a quick step put himself between
the girl and the door.

"Now, my dear," he said, "you've got to listen to me!"