Merton was reading the newspaper in the office, expecting a client.  Miss Blossom was typewriting in the inner chamber; the door between was open.  The office boy knocked at Merton’s outer door, and the sound of that boy’s strangled chuckling was distinctly audible to his employer.  There is something irritating in the foolish merriment of a youthful menial.  No conduct could be more likely than that of the office boy to irritate the first client, arriving on business of which it were hard to exaggerate the delicate and anxious nature.

These reflections flitted through Merton’s mind as he exclaimed ’Come in,’ with a tone of admonishing austerity.

The office boy entered.  His face was scarlet, his eyes goggled and ran water.  Hastily and loudly exclaiming ‘Mr. and Miss Apsley’ (which ended with a crow) he stuffed his red pocket handkerchief into his mouth and escaped.  At the sound of the names, Merton had turned towards the inner door, open behind him, whence came a clear and piercing trill of feminine laughter from Miss Blossom.  Merton angrily marched to the inner door, and shut his typewriter in with a bang.  His heart burned within him.  Nothing could be so insulting to clients; nothing so ruinous to a nascent business.  He wheeled round to greet his visitors with a face of apology; his eyes on the average level of the human countenance divine.  There was no human countenance divine.  There was no human countenance at that altitude.  His eyes encountered the opposite wall, and a print of ’Mrs. Pelham Feeding Chickens.’

In a moment his eyes adjusted themselves to a lower elevation.  In front of him were standing, hand in hand, a pair of small children, a boy of nine in sailor costume, but with bare knees not usually affected by naval officers, and a girl of seven with her finger in her mouth.

The boy bowed gravely.  He was a pretty little fellow with a pale oval face, arched eyebrows, promise of an aquiline nose, and two large black eyes.  ‘I think, sir,’ said the child, ’I have the pleasure of redressing myself to Mr. Gray or Mr. Graham?’

‘Graham, at your service,’ said Merton, gravely; ’may I ask you and Miss Apsley to be seated?’

There was a large and imposing arm-chair in green leather; the client’s chair.  Mr. Apsley lifted his little sister into it, and sat down beside her himself.  She threw her arms round his neck, and laid her flaxen curls on his shoulder.  Her blue eyes looked shyly at Merton out of her fleece of gold.  The four shoes of the clients dangled at some distance above the carpet.

‘You are the author of this article, I think, Mr. Graham?’ said Mr. Apsley, showing his hand, which was warm, and holding out a little crumpled ball of paper, not precisely fresh.

Merton solemnly unrolled it; it contained the advertisement of his firm.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I wrote that.’

‘You got our letters, for you answered them,’ said Mr. Apsley, with equal solemnity.  ‘Why do you want Bats and me?’