Mr. Hart glanced at me as I approached, but didn’t pause in his conversation with Mr. Bradley. The conversation turned out to be a debate, and I had the feeling it would continue until Mr. Hart prevailed. He did not have the stature of the second editor, and his suit was not of the same quality, but his face was stern where Mr. Bradley’s was kindly. It was only a matter of time. The compositor caught my eye and smiled, as if apologising for the older men. He was a good deal taller than both of them, lean and clean-shaven. His hair was almost black, his eyes almost violet. I recognised him then. A boy from St. Barnabas. I’d spent a lot of time watching the boys play in their yard when none of the girls would play with me in ours. I could tell he didn’t recognise me.

“May I ask how you spell forgo?” he asked, leaning towards me.

“Really, they’re still talking about that?” I whispered. “That’s why I’m here.”

His brow creased, but before he could ask anything else, Mr. Hart addressed me.

“Esme, how is your father?”

“Very well, sir.”

“Is he here?”

“No, Dr. Murray sent me.” I handed over the note, a little crushed by my nervous hand.

Mr. Hart read it and nodded slowly in agreement. I noticed the twirled ends of his moustache turn up a little. He passed the note to Mr. Bradley.

“This should settle things, Henry,” he said.

Mr. Bradley read the note and the ends of his moustache remained still. He conceded the argument about forgo with a gentlemanly nod of the head.

“Now, Gareth. If you could show Mr. Bradley the mats for get,” said Mr. Hart, while he shook the editor’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” the compositor said. Then to me, “Nice to meet you, miss.”

But we haven’t really met, I thought.

He turned towards his bench, and Mr. Bradley followed.

I went to say goodbye to Mr. Hart, but he had already moved on to another bench and was checking an older man’s work. I would have liked to follow him, to understand what each man was working on. Most were setting type from manuscripts: in each case, the piles of uniform pages were in a single hand. Just one author. I looked towards the bench where Mr. Bradley now stood with the young compositor. There were three piles of slips tied with string. Another pile was unbound, half the words already in type and the other half waiting.

“Miss Nicoll.”

I turned and saw Mr. Hart holding open the door. I wove back through the rows of benches.

Over the next few months, Dr. Murray gave me several notes to deliver to the Controller. I took them gladly, hoping for another opportunity to visit the composing room. But every time I knocked on Mr. Hart’s office door, he would answer.