This young man had
not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat, which was stuck
upon the back of his head, his hands were in his pockets, a sacrilegious
whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the door of the sanctum
sanctorum of the Meeson establishment _with a kick_!
"How do, uncle?" he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting there
behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he were an
ordinary man. "Why, what's up?"
Just then, however, he caught sight of the very handsome young lady who
was seated in the office, and his whole demeanour underwent a most
remarkable change; out came the hands from his pockets, off went the hat,
and, turning, he bowed, really rather nicely, considering how impromptu
the whole performance was.
"What is it, Eustace?" asked Mr. Meeson, sharply.
"Oh, nothing, uncle; nothing--it can bide," and, without waiting for an
invitation, he took a chair, and sat down in such a position that he
could see Miss Smithers without being seen of his uncle.
"I was saying, Miss Smithers, or rather, I was going to say," went on the
elder Meeson, "that, in short, I do not in the least understand what you
can mean. You will remember that you were paid a sum of fifty pounds for
the copyright of 'Jemima's Vow.
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