‘The lady’s name is Bats?’ said Merton, wondering why he was supposed to ‘want’ either of the pair.

‘My name is Batsy.  I like you:  you are pretty,’ said Miss Apsley.

Merton positively blushed:  he was unaccustomed to compliments so frank from a member of the sex at an early stage of a business interview.  He therefore kissed his fair client, who put up a pair of innocent damp lips, and then allowed her attention to be engrossed by a coin on his watch-chain.

’I don’t quite remember your case, sir, or what you mean by saying I wanted you, though I am delighted to see you,’ he said to Mr. Apsley.  ’We have so many letters!  With your permission I shall consult the letter book.’

’The article says “To Parents, Guardians, Children, and others.”  It was in print,’ remarked Mr. Apsley, with a heavy stress on “children,” ’and she said you wanted us.’

The mystified Merton, wondering who ‘she’ was, turned the pages of the letter book, mumbling, ’Abernethy, Applecombe, Ap.  Davis, Apsley.  Here we are,’ he began to read the letter aloud.  It was typewritten, which, when he saw his clients, not a little surprised him.

‘Gentlemen,’ the letter ran, ’having seen your advertisement in the Daily Diatribe of to-day, May 17, I desire to express my wish to enter into communication with you on a matter of pressing importance.—­I am, in the name of my sister, Miss Josephine Apsley, and myself,

’Faithfully yours,
‘THOMAS LLOYD APSLEY.’

‘That’s the letter,’ said Mr. Apsley, ‘and you wrote to us.’

‘And what did I say?’ asked Merton.

‘Something about preferences, which we did not understand.’

‘References, perhaps,’ said Merton.  ’Mr. Apsley, may I ask whether you wrote this letter yourself?’

’No; None-so-pretty printed it on a kind of sewing machine. She told us to come and see you, so we came.  I called her None-so-pretty, out of a fairy story.  She does not mind.  Gran says she thinks she rather likes it.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if she did,’ said Merton.  ’But what is her real name?’

’She made me promise not to tell.  She was staying at the Home Farm when we were staying at Gran’s.’

‘Is Gran your grandmother?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Apsley.

Hereon Bats remarked that she was ‘velly hungalee.’

‘To be sure,’ said Merton.  ‘Luncheon shall be brought at once.’  He rang the bell, and, going out, interpellated the office boy.

’Why did you laugh when my friends came to luncheon?  You must learn manners.’

’Please, sir, the kid, the young gentleman I mean, said he came on business,’ answered the boy, showing apoplectic symptoms.

’So he did; luncheon is his business.  Go and bring luncheon for—­five, and see that there are chicken, cutlets, tartlets, apricots, and ginger-beer.’

The boy departed and Merton reflected.  ’A hoax, somebody’s practical joke,’ he said to himself.  ‘I wonder who Miss None-so-pretty is.’  Then he returned, assured Batsy that luncheon was even at the doors, and leaving her to look at Punch, led Mr. Apsley aside.  ‘Tommy,’ he said (having seen his signature), ‘where do you live?’