‘Yes, sir. I could do all that, sir. Will there be a chance to get on, sir?’

‘Get on? How? Get more money, do you mean? You’ll get a pound a week,’ said Mr Graby, not at all impressed by this zeal. Everyone pretended to be keen when they wanted a job.

‘I meant get a better position, sir.’

‘There’s always room at the top,’ said Mr Graby, dryly and not at all encouragingly. When perplexed and irritated he often fell back on proverbs, saying them in a peculiarly disapproving voice which made people think that he had personally tested them out and found that they were all lies.

He was silent for a second or two, staring down at the tray of mica. Francis, sweating with varied emotions, glared imploringly at his face. Oh, would he get it?

Mr Graby, in fact, did not know whether to give him the job or not. He could get thousands of competent office boys from the Council schools. This boy had been to a public school, though not a first-class one, and was probably a snob. He might find it difficult to work under men who had not been to public schools. He had a too-easy manner, and his clothes were too smart by a long chalk (but Mr Graby shrewdly guessed that this was Francis’s only grand suit). He looked bossy, bad-tempered and not very strong; his face was the colour of cheese. Mr Graby had taken a dislike to him, and was annoyed by his eagerness, and the way he had hung over the silica, trying to impress his future boss.

But after all, he could always be sacked at the end of a week if he was no good, and old Garden had hinted at some funny business at home; his father drank, or something. That might explain a lot.

‘All right. Start on Monday at eight sharp. Mr Faraday’ll put you in the way of things. ’Morning.’

He said this suddenly, pulling some papers towards him. They were not papers that he intended to study, and this made him crosser than ever.

The fact was, this boy made him nervous.

‘Oh, sir! Thanks most awfully, sir!’ said Francis. ‘It’s awfully decent of you, sir.’

‘All right. ’Morning,’ said Mr Graby, not looking up.

‘Good morning, sir. Thanks awfully.’

Francis went, striding out of the room like youth incarnate – pompousness, earnestness, maddening spots on the forehead, elegance and adventurousness and all.

He at once rushed off to telephone Sophia.

‘Dear, I’ve got it! Start on Monday at eight! A pound a week. He says there may be a chance for me to get on, too.’

‘Francis, how marvellous! I say, we’re really getting on, aren’t we? Is Aunt Grace expecting you back for lunch, or can you come and lunch with me?’

‘I’ve only got ninepence.’

‘Never mind … I’ve got some.’

‘And I shan’t eat much. The fact is, I’ve been rather sick.’

So Francis may be left to the tender questions, the wonder and congratulations and the sympathy of his sister. She was convinced that Mr Graby had been impressed by his air of efficiency, and that he saw in him a future director of the firm.