"Sure the Archbishop of Canterbury isn't with her, Johnnie dear?" asked Gladys Norman sweetly, without looking up from the cleaning of her typewriter. In her own mind she was satisfied that this was a little joke inspired by Thompson.
"No, Miss, she's alone," replied the literal William Johnson.
"Show her Ladyship in," she said, still playing for safety. "Da—— sh!" she muttered as, having inadvertently touched the release, the carriage slid to the left, pinching her finger in its course.
William Johnson departed, his head half turned over his right shoulder in admiration of one who could hear with such unconcern that a real lady had called to see her.
As her door opened for a second time, Gladys Norman assiduously kept her eyes fixed upon her machine.
"No, Johnnie," she remarked, still without looking up. "It's no good. Lady Denes don't call upon typists at 9.30 a.m., so buzz off, little beanlet. I'm——"
"But this Lady Dene does."
Gladys Norman jumped to her feet, knocking over the benzine bottle and dropping her brush into the vitals of the machine.
Before her stood a fair-haired girl, her violet eyes brimming with mischievous laughter, whilst in her arms she carried a mass of red roses.
"I'm so sorry," faltered Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, and conscious of her heightened colour and the violet-stained gloves that had once been white. "I thought Johnnie was playing a joke."