“You can’t go in there!” he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak.
“I am going in there!”
“That’s Mr Goble’s private room.”
“Well, I want a private talk with Mr Goble.”
Ralph, his eyes still moist, felt that the situation was slipping from his grip. This sort of thing had never happened to him before.
“I tell ya he zout!”
Jill looked at him sternly.
“You wretched child!” she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from the neighborhood of the switchboard. “Do you know where little boys go who don’t speak the truth? I can hear him playing the piano. Now he’s singing! And it’s no good telling me he’s busy. If he was busy, he wouldn’t have time to sing. If you’re as deceitful as this at your age, what do you expect to be when you grow up? You’re an ugly little boy, you’ve got red ears, and your collar doesn’t fit! I shall speak to Mr Goble about you.”
With which words Jill opened the door and walked in.
“Good afternoon,” she said brightly.