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Mrs. Pomeroy did much of her shopping in St. Paul’s Churchyard or at the Civil Service Stores in Queen Victoria Street. She was a member of the Civil Service Stores. Meanwhile, a male person whom the agency appeared to have supplied with extraordinary promptitude, sat on a seat in the vestibule of the Stores and waited for his new employer.

An old black Gladstone bag was tucked between his feet, and the seated figure was as motionless as the bag. Its immobility was remarkable, suggesting an extreme docility, a peculiar and tame gentleness. The man’s greyish hair was closely cut, his face clean-shaven. There were wrinkles round his quiet eyes. He looked intelligent, almost a man of education. His hands rested on his knees with the same air of mute passivity. The fingers were roughened, the nails worn down. His mouth was the mouth of an ascetic. The only liveness seemed in his eyes, and this liveness contained a tinge of fear, rather like that of a shy bird that has been taken suddenly from darkness into the light. He watched the people who came and went, but without moving his head.

The man wore a bowler hat with a high crown, a blue serge suit, a white collar and black tie. His boots were carefully polished. They had square and bulbous toes, and their clumsiness did not match the rest of him. His wandering glances, and his stillness expressed a certain nervous bewilderment, as though the hurry and bustle of life were strange to him. You might have said that he was a clockwork figure which would not come alive until you turned a key.

Mrs. Pomeroy appeared upon the stairs, slung around with parcels. The man did not see her until she was close upon him. His face brightened in a sudden smile, and just as suddenly became dead. Mrs. Pomeroy’s eyes had a peculiarly hard glazed look, and the glass was frosted.

“Take these—Slade.”

The man stood up on his thin legs like a figure pulled by a string. He gave Mrs. Pomeroy one queer, questioning look, and then put out a hand for some of the parcels. He did not speak.

“I have ordered you an alpaca coat, Slade.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And a pair of boots. Eight was the size.”

“Yes——”

An additional syllabic had slipped off his tongue. Mrs. Pomeroy’s eyes gave him a sudden and harsh glare. He looked frightened, confused, apologetic.

“Er—thank you, madam.”

“Get a cab. You can leave the parcels and your bag. I will wait here.”

“Yes, madam.”

She watched him go down the steps and stand for a moment on the pavement with that peculiar air of bewilderment. Then, he disappeared. Mrs. Pomeroy sat down, picked up his bag, put it on her knees, opened it, and ran her hands through its contents. It contained nothing but a couple of shirts, a spare pair of boots, some underclothing, washing “materials”, a razor in a case, and a book. The book was a Bible. Mrs. Pomeroy opened it, and it so happened that it opened where a card had been inserted. Mrs. Pomeroy looked at the card, and with a quick movement opened her own handbag and tucked the card away in it. Then she examined the fly leaf of the Bible, appeared satisfied with her inspection and returned the book to the bag. She had just done so when a growler drew up, and Slade, emerging from it, came up the steps and looked at her with the eyes of an apologetic dog.

“The cab, madam.”

Mrs. Pomeroy rose.

“Very good, Slade—Carry down the parcels.”

When the lady had entered the cab her new employee stood hesitant upon the kerb. The cabbie’s box would not accommodate a second person, and Slade appeared to be shy of driving with his mistress.

“Get in, Slade—Tell him Fenchurch Street Station.”

Slade spoke to the cabman, slipped his bag into the cab, and entering it, sat down deprecatingly on the seat facing his mistress. He kept his feet tucked in, removed his hat, and placing it on his knees, folded his hands over it.

Mrs. Pomeroy looked out of the window.

“I had better repeat to you, Slade, what your duties will be.”

“Yes, madam.”

“You will clean the knives, the silver and the boots. You will carry luggage up and down. You will be responsible for the front steps and the gardens. They are only small gardens. You will wait at table. You will make yourself useful in any other way that I shall indicate.”

“Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Pomeroy’s eyes were resting on his hands.

“You must take more care of your hands, Slade.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Remember, you will have to wait at table—Yes, and you will have to carry up the coals. And if any of the gentlemen should need valeting you will valet them.”

There was the same meek, gentle reply.

“Yes, madam.”