We handed him our printed tariff. He seemed satisfied. 'Could you spare me an hour this morning?' he asked, still fingering his hat nervously with his puffy hand. 'But perhaps you are engaged. I fear I intrude upon you.' 'Not at all,' I answered, consulting an imaginary engagement list. 'This work can wait. Let me see: 11.30. Elsie, I think you have nothing to do before one, that cannot be put off? Quite so!--very well, then; yes, we are both at your service.' The Urbane Old Gentleman looked about him for a seat. I pushed him our one easy chair. He withdrew his gloves with great deliberation, and sat down in it with an apologetic glance. I could gather from his dress and his diamond pin that he was wealthy. Indeed, I half guessed who he was already. There was a fussiness about his manner which seemed strangely familiar to me. He sat down by slow degrees, edging himself about till he was thoroughly comfortable. I could see he was of the kind that will have comfort. He took out his notes and a packet of letters, which he sorted slowly. Then he looked hard at me and at Elsie. He seemed to be making his choice between us. After a time he spoke. 'I _think_,' he said, in a most leisurely voice, 'I will not trouble your friend to write shorthand for me, after all. Or should I say your assistant? Excuse my change of plan. I will content myself with dictation. You can follow on the machine?' 'As fast as you choose to dictate to me.' He glanced at his notes and began a letter. It was a curious communication. It seemed to be all about buying Bertha and selling Clara--a cold-blooded proceeding which almost suggested slave-dealing. I gathered he was giving instructions to his agent: could he have business relations with Cuba, I wondered. But there were also hints of mysterious middies--brave British tars to the rescue, possibly! Perhaps my bewilderment showed itself upon my face, for at last he looked queerly at me. 'You don't quite like this, I'm afraid,' he said, breaking off short. I was the soul of business. 'Not at all,' I answered. 'I am an automaton--nothing more. It is a typewriter's function to transcribe the words a client dictates as if they were absolutely meaningless to her.' 'Quite right,' he answered, approvingly. 'Quite right. I see you understand. A very proper spirit!' Then the Woman within me got the better of the Typewriter. 'Though I confess,' I continued, 'I _do_ feel it is a little unkind to sell Clara at once for whatever she will fetch. It seems to me--well--unchivalrous.' He smiled, but held his peace. 'Still--the middies,' I went on: 'they will perhaps take care that these poor girls are not ill-treated.'