ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS 365

Turgis, "and the room I went into was a large room,
bigger than this office here, and it had all sorts of things
in it, and shaded lights and a big gramophone and dozens
of cushions all over the room—"

"Did it look like a furnished flat?" asked Miss Mat-
field.

"I suppose so. I don't know. I don't know anything
about furnished flats."

"Well, what about his daughter?" Miss Sellers en-
quired. "What's she like?"

"I've seen her—for a minute," said Miss Matfield.
"She's rather pretty, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," replied Turgis, keeping a hold on him-
self. He was bubbling inside.

"Yes, but what's die like?" Miss Sellers persisted,
staring at him. And when he made no reply, but turned
away and pretended to be suddenly busy with some
work, she gave him a curious look before she herself
turned away, too. He never saw it, and if he had seen
it, he would not have been interested.

Fortunately, both for him and for Twigg and Dersing-
ham, he was not very busy that afternoon. Otherwise,
he might have muddled every consignment of veneers
and inlays, and so confused the whole trade that it might
not have recovered for a fortnight. The disadvantage
of pinning your whole afternoon on a possible telephone
call in an office is that the telephone is ringing every few
minutes and you are for ever on the jump. Up to three-
thirty, Turgis was comparatively calm; from three-thirty
to four, he was on the tiptoe of expectation; from four
to four-fifteen he was desperate; from four-fifteen to
four-thirty he was swaying on the brink of a vast abyss
of misery, only to be plucked back by every ring of the