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Mr. Bredon extended a well-kept hand.

“How do you do?”

“How do you do?” echoed Mr. Ingleby. They gazed at one another with the faint resentment of two cats at their first meeting. Mr. Hankin smiled kindly at them both.

“And when you've produced some ideas on margarine, Mr. Bredon, bring them along to my room and we'll go over them.”

“Right-ho!” said Mr. Bredon, simply.

Mr. Hankin smiled again and padded gently away.

“Well, you'd better know everybody,” said Mr. Ingleby, rapidly. “Miss Rossiter and Miss Parton are our guardian angels—type our copy, correct our grammar, provide us with pencils and paper and feed us on coffee and cake. Miss Parton is the blonde and Miss Rossiter the brunette. Gentlemen prefer blondes but personally I find them both equally seraphic.”

Mr. Bredon bowed.

“Miss Meteyard—of Somerville. One of the brighter ornaments of our department. She makes the vulgarest limericks ever recited within these chaste walls.”

“Then we shall be friends,” said Mr. Bredon cordially.