"And now," Mr. Prohack went on, ignoring her. "This being made perfectly clear, go into the boudoir--that's the room through there--and bring me here all the parcels lying about. Our next task is to check the accuracy of several of the leading tradesmen in the West End." "I think there are one or two more parcels that have been delivered this morning, in the hall," said Miss Warburton. "Perhaps I had better fetch them." "Perhaps you had." In a few minutes, Miss Warburton, by dint of opening parcels, had transformed the bedroom into a composite of the principal men's shops in Piccadilly and Bond Street. Mr. Prohack recoiled before the chromatic show and also before the prospect of Eve's views on the show. "Take everything into the boudoir," said he, "and arrange them under the sofa. It's important that we should not lose our heads in this crisis. When you go out to lunch you will buy some foolscap paper and this afternoon you will make a schedule of the goods, divided according to the portions of the human frame which they are intended to conceal or adorn. What are you laughing at, Miss Warburton?" "You are so amusing, Mr. Prohack." "I may be amusing, but I am not susceptible to the flattery of giggling. Endeavour not to treat serious subjects lightly." "I don't see any boots." "Neither do I. You will telephone to the bootmaker's, and to my tailor's; also to Sir Paul Spinner and Messrs. Smathe and Smathe. But before that I will just dictate a few more letters." "Certainly." When he had finished dictating, Mr. Prohack said: "I shall now get up. Go downstairs and ask Machin--that's the parlourmaid--to show you the breakfast-room. The breakfast-room is behind the dining-room, and is so called because it is never employed for breakfast. It exists in all truly London houses, and is perfectly useless in all of them except those occupied by dentists, who use it for their beneficent labours in taking things from, or adding things to, the bodies of their patients. The breakfast-room in this house will be the secretary's room--your room if you continue to give me satisfaction. Remove that typewriting machine from here, and arrange your room according to your desire.... And I say, Miss Warburton." "Yes, Mr. Prohack," eagerly responded the secretary, pausing at the door. "Yesterday I gave you a brief outline of your duties. But I omitted one exceedingly important item--almost as important as not falling in love with my son. You will have to keep on good terms with Machin. Machin is indispensable and irreplaceable. I could get forty absolutely loyal secretaries while my wife was unsuccessfully searching for another Machin." "I have an infallible way with parlourmaids," said Miss Warburton. "What is that?" "I listen to their grievances and to their love-affairs."