The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers.
COKESON. And five's twelve, and three—fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one.
He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and
SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him.
He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair.
COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one.
SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson.
COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine—and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name?
SWEEDLE. Honeywill.
COKESON. What's his business?
SWEEDLE. It's a woman.
COKESON. A lady?