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