"Absolutely feverish rush ever since I got there," he declared. "Don't know how long my nerves will stand it. Telephones ringing, men rushing out of the office without their hats, and bumping into you without saying 'by your leave' or 'beg your pardon,' or any little civility of that sort, and good old Maurice, with his hair standing up on end, shouting into two telephones at the same time, and dictating a letter to one of the peachiest little bits of fluff I've seen outside the front rows for I don't know how long."
"Jimmy," Sarah said sternly, "I'm not sure that the City is going to suit you. You don't have to dictate letters to her, do you?"
"No such luck," Jimmy sighed. "She is the Chief's own particular property. Does a thousand words a minute and knits a jumper at the same time."
"Whom do you dictate your letters to?" Sarah demanded.
"To tell you the truth," Jimmy answered, falling on his cocktail, "I haven't had any to write yet."
"What has your work been?" Lady Amesbury asked.
"Kind of superintending," the young man explained, "looking on at everything—getting the hang of it, you know."
"Are the other men there nice?" Sarah enquired.
"Well, we don't seem to have had much time for conversation yet," Jimmy replied, attacking his caviar like a man anxious to make up for lost time. "I heard one chap tell another that I'd come to give tone to the establishment, which seemed to me a pleasant and friendly way of looking at it."
"You didn't have any commissions yourself?" Sarah went on.