ays the young lady severely. "You are
keeping me here all the morning."

So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells you
that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight against
your ear, you stand waiting.

And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man feel
ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a machine to
his head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back aches and your
head aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and
somebody enter the room. You can't turn your head. You swear at them,
and hear the door close with a bang. It immediately occurs to you that
in all probability it was Henrietta. 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. Will-i-am-son!"

"You're the son of what? I can't hear what you say."

Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by
superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish to
know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you, "Be in
all the morning."

So you snatch up your hat and run round.

"Oh, I've come to see Mr. Williamson," you say.

"Very sorry, sir," is the polite reply, "but he's out."

"Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he'd be in
all the morning."