She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the office marked "1."
It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in.
There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in the specimen.
"Is Mr. Hatch in?"
"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen now, and it began to be cumbersome.
"Er, what name?"
"Miss Brettan."
He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step in, please."
An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she were alone in the room.
"Miss—Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam."