The owner of the decided voice went on writing. Clodd, having done
as he was bid, sat himself in the easy-chair before the fire and
smoked. Of the person behind the desk Mr. Clodd could see but the
head and shoulders. It had black, curly hair, cut short. It's
only garment visible below the white collar and red tie might have
been a boy's jacket designed more like a girl's, or a girl's
designed more like a boy's; partaking of the genius of English
statesmanship, it appeared to be a compromise. Mr. Clodd remarked
the long, drooping lashes over the bright, black eyes.

"It's a girl," said Mr. Clodd to himself; "rather a pretty girl."

Mr. Clodd, continuing downward, arrived at the nose.

"No," said Mr. Clodd to himself, "it's a boy--a cheeky young
beggar, I should say."

The person at the desk, giving a grunt of satisfaction, gathered
together sheets of manuscript and arranged them; then, resting its
elbows on the desk and taking its head between its hands, regarded
Mr. Clodd.

"Don't you hurry yourself," said Mr. Clodd; "but when you really
have finished, tell me what you think of me."

"I beg your pardon," apologised the person at the desk. "I have
got into a habit of staring at people. I know it's rude. I'm
trying to break myself of it."

"Tell me your name," suggested Mr. Clodd, "and I'll forgive you."