"Is it anything urgent?" she asked.
"Well, it is a bit urgent."
He had a strong, full, pleasant voice.
"Won't you sit down?"
"Thanks."
He sat down, disposing his hat by the side of her machine, and his overcoat on another chair, and drawing off his gloves.
Lilian waited like a cat to pounce upon the slightest sign of familiarity and kill it; for she had understood that men-about-town regarded girl typists as their quarry and as nothing else. But there was no least lapse from deferential propriety; the clubman might have been in colloquy with his sister's friend--and his sister listening in the next room. He pulled a manuscript from his breast-pocket, and, after a loving glance at it, offered it to her.
"I've only just written it," said he. "And I want to take it round to the Evening Standard office myself in the morning before 8.30. The editor's an acquaintance of mine and I might get it into to-morrow afternoon's paper. In fact, it must be to-morrow or never--because of the financial debate in the House, you see. Topical. I wonder whether you'd be good enough to do it for me."
"Let me see," said Lilian professionally. "About fifteen hundred words, or hardly. Oh, yes! I will do it myself."
"That's very kind of you. Will you mind looking at the writing? Do you think you'll be able to make it out? I was at a bit of a jolly to-night, and my hand's never too legible."