Miss Spain did not reply. If this was the new office boy, looking like a duke and grinning at her as though he had known her all his life, she would show him where he got off. If he was not an office boy – and certainly he did not look like one – what business had he in their room?

Curiosity began to mingle with her sulkiness, but she would not indulge it by asking him his name or who he was. She began her elaborate face toilet in front of the mirror (it had been polished; that was Little Sunshine at work, she supposed), and Francis, passing a last satisfied glance over the newly filled inkpots, the uncovered and dusted typewriters, the chairs in position, the mirror, and the type erasers neatly arranged beside each machine, opened the string canister to make sure that it held an ample supply for the day’s demands.

He took no more notice of Lily Spain. He had sized her up; and knew exactly how to treat her. Plenty of contempt, with occasional flashes of sympathy, was the diet that would bring Miss Spain to heel.

Not that he wanted her at his heel particularly, but she was a girl, and therefore she must be subdued; she would do to practise on while he was looking for a girl he liked better. He admired her slender ankles displayed by very high heeled shoes, her bright dark eyes and dark curls, but her complexion was not good and – poor Miss Spain – she did not look very clean, in spite of her varnished nails. Her white collar was grubby and there were unsightly stains on the bosom of her red dress.

Had she good teeth? Impossible to say; she had not yet smiled. Much would depend upon her teeth; he could not even bother to subdue a girl who had bad teeth.

His silence, industry and new suit soon produced the effect he wanted.

Miss Spain said sneeringly:

‘Busy, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve been here since eight,’ said he with disarming mildness. ‘There was quite a lot to do. Your last chap doesn’t seem to have been very efficient.’

‘He was all right,’ retorted Lily, defending the grime, pimples, cheek and laziness of one Wally, who had been her deadly foe during his time there, and her curiosity, which was now overwhelming, made her add, ‘Are you the new office boy, then?’

Francis repressed a natural desire to reply, ‘No, I’m Clark Gable,’ and said simply, ‘Yes.’

And he added, with an old-fashioned courtesy which made Lily want to giggle and yet impressed her, ‘My name’s Garden – Francis Garden. May I know yours?’

‘Miss Spain,’ she muttered, staring at him. ‘Will you do all Wally’s work, then?’

‘Of course.’

‘Make the tea and go down to the wharf and everything?’

‘I shall do whatever Wally – whoever Wally may have been – did. Only I shall do it better.’

This was a false move. Lily did not like boys who were conceited; and this one was only an office boy, even if he was very well dressed. She was haughtily turning away towards her typewriter when Francis said: