‘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.’