Sealyham, whose husband was temporarily embarrassed in Wall
Street, contented herself with a Sheraton chifforobe.

But it began to be evident that his delightful little office was
not going to be a shrine for quiet meditation. His vanity had
been pleased by the large advertisement about him, but he
suddenly realized the poison that lies in printer's ink. Almost
overnight, it seemed, he had been added to ten thousand mailing
lists. Little Miss Whippet, although she was fast at typewriting,
was hard put to it to keep up with his correspondence. She
quivered eagerly over her machine, her small paws flying. New
pink ribbons gleamed through her translucent summery georgette
blouse. They were her flag of exultation at her surprising rise
in life. She felt it was immensely important to get all these
letters answered promptly.

And so did Gissing. In his new zeal, and in his innocent
satisfaction at having entered the inner circle of Big Business,
he insisted on answering everything. He did not realize that
dictating letters is the quaint diversion of business men, and
that most of them mean nothing. It is simply the easiest way of
assuring yourself that you are busy.

This job was no sinecure. Old Mr. Beagle had so much affectionate
confidence in Gissing that he referred almost everything to him
for decision. Mr. Beagle junior, perhaps a little annoyed at the
floorwalker's meteoric translation, spent the summer afternoons
at golf. The infinite details of a great business crowded upon
him. Inexperienced, he had not learned the ways in which seasoned
"executives" protect themselves against useless intrusion. His