le, till we knew every square inch of it
better than Mr. Ruskin. Elsie's notebook contains, I believe, eleven
hundred separate sketches of the Campanile, from the right end, the left
end, and the middle of our window, with eight hundred and five distinct
distortions of the individual statues that adorn its niches on the side
turned towards us.

At last, after we had sat, and bitten our thumbs, and sketched the Four
Greater Prophets for a fortnight on end, an immense excitement occurred.
An old gentleman was distinctly seen to approach and to look up at the
sign-board which decorated our office.

I instantly slipped in a sheet of foolscap, and began to type-write with
alarming speed--click, click, click; while Elsie, rising to the
occasion, set to work to transcribe imaginary shorthand as if her life
depended upon it.

The old gentleman, after a moment's hesitation, lifted the latch of the
door somewhat nervously. I affected to take no notice of him, so
breathless was the haste with which our immense business connection
compelled me to finger the keyboard: but, looking up at him under my
eyelashes, I could just make out he was a peculiarly bland and urbane
old person, dressed with the greatest care, and some attention to
fashion. His face was smooth; it tended towards portliness.

He made up his mind, and entered the office. I continued to click till I
had reached the close of a sentence--'Or to take arms against a sea of
troubles, and by opposing, end them.' Then I looked up sharply. 'Can I
do anything for you?' I inquired, in the smartest tone of business. (I
observe that politeness is not professional.)

[Illustration: THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN.]

The Urbane Old Gentleman came forward with his hat in his hand. He
looked as if he had just landed from the Eighteenth Century. His figure
was that of Mr. Edward Gibbon. 'Yes, madam,' he said, in a markedly
deferential tone, fussing about with the rim of his hat as he spoke, and
adjusting his _pince-nez_. 'I was recommended to your--ur--your
establishment for shorthand and typewriting. I have some work which I
wish done, if it falls within your province. But I am _rather_
particular. I require a quick worker. Excuse my asking it, but how many
words can you do a minute?'

'Shorthand?' I asked, sharply, for I wished to imitate official habits.

The Urbane Old Gentleman bowed. 'Yes, shorthand. Certainly.'

I waved my hand with careless grace towards Elsie--as if these