"I don't mind correcting misprints," he said. "I am used to it. Male compositors cannot spell, of course; in fact, very few of them can read. But they do understand stops; at least, they put in the stops that an author gives them. The female of the species, on the other hand, only recognises the existence of two--the comma and the note of exclamation. These she drops into the script as she would drop cloves into an apple-tart--a handful or two when she has finished setting up the type. At least, I suppose so. She also sets her face against the senseless custom of using capital letters to begin a sentence. Otherwise she is admirably suited to her calling. Look at this!" He exhibited a corrected proof--a mass of red ink and marginal profanity. "I am feeling better now," he said. "I have written both to the publisher and printer. The letter to the printer was particularly good. Have a cigarette? What have you come to see us for--business or pleasure?" "Business," said Philip. "Public or private?" Philip considered. "Private." Mr. Mablethorpe turned to his daughter. "Inquisitive female," he thundered, "avaunt!" "Oh, it's not private to Dumps," said Philip. "I have been offered a new billet, that's all." "Then let us all sit down and argue about it," proposed Mr. Mablethorpe with zest. He threw his proofs on the floor. "My wife is upstairs, reading the mendacious prospectus of a new Continental spa, and I don't suppose she will develop the symptoms it professes to cure much before six o'clock. Go ahead, Philip." "The directors want me to take charge of the London offices," said Philip. "What are the London offices, where are they, and why do they require taking charge of?" enquired Mr. Mablethorpe categorically. Like all unmethodical and scatter-brained persons he cherished a high opinion of himself as a man of affairs. "The London offices," said Philip, "are in Oxford Street. They consist of a show-room, full of new cars--the Company gets most of its orders through this show-room--and a biggish garage and repairing-shop at the back, opening into somewhere in Soho." "And do they want you to tell untruths in the show-room or wash cars in the garage?" enquired Mr. Mablethorpe. Dumps stiffened indignantly, but Philip laughed. "They want me to boss the whole place," he said. "Hitherto they have had a man in charge of the show-room and another in charge of the garage, and there has been everlasting trouble between them. I gather that the show-room man is young--an old public-school boy--" "I know! Wears white spats, and sends for an underling to open the bonnet of a car when a customer asks to see the works," said Mr. Mablethorpe. "Go on." "And the repair-shop man is elderly and Yorkshire and a ranker. I fancy they parted brass-rags from the start, with the result that working expenses are too high--" "Surprising!" murmured Mr. Mablethorpe.