He made up his mind, and entered the office. I continued to click till I had reached the close of a sentence—'Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.' Then I looked up sharply. 'Can I do anything for you?' I inquired, in the smartest tone of business. (I observe that politeness is not professional.)
THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN.
The Urbane Old Gentleman came forward with his hat in his hand. He looked as if he had just landed from the Eighteenth Century. His figure was that of Mr. Edward Gibbon. 'Yes, madam,' he said, in a markedly deferential tone, fussing about with the rim of his hat as he spoke, and adjusting his pince-nez. 'I was recommended to your—ur—your establishment for shorthand and typewriting. I have some work which I wish done, if it falls within your province. But I am rather particular. I require a quick worker. Excuse my asking it, but how many words can you do a minute?'
'Shorthand?' I asked, sharply, for I wished to imitate official habits.
The Urbane Old Gentleman bowed. 'Yes, shorthand. Certainly.'
I waved my hand with careless grace towards Elsie—as if these things happened to us daily. 'Miss Petheridge undertakes the shorthand department,' I said, with decision. 'I am the typewriting from dictation. Miss Petheridge, forward!'
Elsie rose to it like an angel. 'A hundred,' she answered, confronting him.
The old gentleman bowed again. 'And your terms?' he inquired, in a honey-tongued voice. 'If I may venture to ask them.'