The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent. Life has these chequered moments. There is something of despatch and order wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with people who don't know their own minds and apparently are least likely to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with it. Be that as it may, house agents' offices in general have a want of definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers'. There is no exact spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one you approach will transfer you to another. There is also a certain air of familiarity or friendliness: not, of course, approaching the camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female clerk in a post-office.
Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with "our Mr. Plausible," in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment repose.
Occupying his far too tolerant ear was another client, whose need was a country house surrounded by enough grass-land for a small stud farm.
This is what happened (he had, by the way, the only chair at that desk):—
Our Mr. Plausible (for the fortieth time). I understand perfectly. A nice house, out-buildings and about twenty acres of meadow.
Client. Twenty to thirty.
Our Mr. P. Yes, or thirty.
C. You see, what I want is to breed stock—cattle and horses too.
Our Mr. P. Exactly. Well, the three places I have given you are all well-adapted.
C. When a man gets to my age and has put a little money by he may just as well take it quietly as not. I don't want a real farm; I want just a smallish place where I can play at raising pedigree animals.