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“Oh, rot!” said the young woman, “you've only got to warn him not to use the directors' lav., and not to tumble down the iron staircase.”

“You are the most callous woman, Miss Meteyard. Well, as long as they don't put the fellow in with me—”

“It's all right, Mr. Ingleby. He's having Mr. Dean's room.”

“Oh! What's he like?”

“Mr. Hankin said he didn't know, Mr. Pym took him on.”

“Oh, gosh! friend of the management.” Mr. Ingleby groaned.

“Then I think I've seen him,” said Miss Meteyard. “Tow-coloured, supercilious-looking blighter. I ran into him coming out of Pymmie's room yesterday. Horn-rims. Cross between Ralph Lynn and Bertie Wooster.”

“Death, where is thy sting? Well, I suppose I'd better push off and see about it.”

Mr. Ingleby lowered his feet from the radiator, prised up his slow length from the revolving chair, and prowled unhappily away.

“Oh, well, it makes a little excitement,” said Miss Meteyard.

“Oh, don't you think we've had rather too much of that lately? By the way, could I have your subscription for the wreath? You told me to remind you.”