She promised to call for you at half-past twelve: you were to take
her to lunch. It was twelve o'clock when you were fool enough to
mix yourself up with this infernal machine, and it probably is
half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before you,
accompanied by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering
how much longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and
whether after all you do really want to see the man in the next
street but two, when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know
if you're done.
"Done!" you retort bitterly; "why, I haven't begun yet."
"Well, be quick," she says, "because you're wasting time."
Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. "ARE you there?" you
cry in tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner;
and then, oh joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying-
-
"Yes, what is it?"
"Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?"
"What?"
"Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?"
"What! who are you?"
"Eight-one-nine, Jones."
"Bones?"
"No, JONES. Are you four-five-seven-six?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Is Mr. Williamson in?"
"Will I what--who are you?"
"Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?"
"Who?"
"Williamson.
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