"Well, you seem to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly. "It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, Miss Milliken?" "Extremely exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting her spectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in her heart. A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glass that morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And these people seemed to imagine that he was in the highest spirits. His laughter, which had sounded to him like the wailing of a demon, struck Miss Milliken as exhilarating. "On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw," said Sir Mallaby, swooping back to duty once more, "we beg to state that we are prepared to accept service ... sounds like a tennis match, eh, Sam? It isn't, though. This young ass, Eggshaw ... what time did you dock this morning?" "I landed nearly a week ago." "A week ago! Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself? Why haven't I seen you?" "I've been down at Bingley-on-the-Sea." "Bingley! What on earth were you doing at that Godforsaken place?" "Wrestling with myself," said Sam with simple dignity. Sir Mallaby's agile mind had leaped back to the letter which he was answering. "We should be glad to meet you.... Wrestling, eh! Well, I like a boy to be fond of manly sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forget that. Life is real! Life is ... how does it go, Miss Milliken?" Miss Milliken folded her hands and shut her eyes, her invariable habit when called upon to recite. "Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Art is long and time is fleeting. And our hearts though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us footsteps on the sands of Time. Let us then ..." said Miss Milliken respectfully ... "be up and doing...." "All right, all right, all right!" said Sir Mallaby. "I don't want it all. Life is real! Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you about that when I've finished answering these infernal letters. Where was I? 'We should be glad to meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment...' Bingley-on-the-Sea! Good heavens! Why Bingley-on-the-Sea? Why not Margate, while you are about it?" "Margate is too bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited my mood. It was gray and dark, and it rained all the time, and the sea slunk about in the distance like some baffled beast...." He stopped, becoming aware that his father was not listening. Sir Mallaby's attention had returned to the letter.