Then there was the manager, Mr Piper, an improbably large Canadian with big, clear grey eyes, who called Sophia ‘my dear child’ and never tried to flirt with her, gave her articles to write which earned her extra half-guineas, and was sometimes a little drunk, which did not prevent him from being an admirable manager, but which distressed Mr Burrows, who decoded the cables when Mr Piper was busy with interviews and negotiations outside the office.

Sophia was fond of Mr Piper; she would have been alarmed had he tried to kiss her, but pleased. She would have said ‘No’, but she would have liked him to try.

This is the second trace of humanity discernible in Sophia; it will be remembered that Mr Marriot had detected another during the reading of the will. No one had ever tried to kiss her, and she sometimes felt surprised and a little indignant about this, for she considered herself handsome. Stern, and nastily dressed, but undeniably handsome.

As for Mr Burrows, he had been a subeditor on the Evening Star for twenty-three years and had been sacked when the Evening Star was eclipsed. Unlike most journalists, Mr Burrows had saved most of his comfortable salary during the twenty-three years, and had enough money to live quietly with his wife in their little house at Kenton near Harrow. But no; Mr Burrows could not bear to stop away from Fleet Street; he resigned his membership of the National Union of Journalists, but he nosed about unhappily until he got this job with the C.N.A. at a small salary, which satisfied Mr Burrows because it gave him something to grumble at and enabled him to run a little car.

Mr Burrows took immense care never to let anyone in the office know that he had any other means than his salary; Sophia in particular was extremely sorry for him when she first went to the C.N.A. She pictured his straitened, pitiful life in a mean suburb, and imagined him living in terror of being sacked, because he always looked so miserable. It was only after Mr Piper, while merry, had accused Mr Burrows of running a car and leading a double life, pounding him the while on the back and giving vent to loud, slow shouts of laughter in front of the whole office that she perceived Mr Burrows was not poor at all; he was far, far richer than she was, and much safer and more comfortable. Mr Piper, of course, knew all about Mr Burrows, because everyone in Fleet Street always does know all about everyone else.

As well as these three and Sophia, there was a tousled, smelly office boy, who looked rather like a lion but who was much liked by them all because he was a bit of a wit and had shining red cheeks under his shock of tow hair. He lived in Hoxton, and the extreme poverty of his parents, added to his natural untidiness, made his clothes a source of constant worry and embarrassment to Miss Candy and Sophia; they had all belonged to other people at one time, and to different ones at that; and they were always coming unbuttoned, splitting, falling off, flying open and abruptly disintegrating.