If he follows this laconic invitation he will make his way into a long, low apartment, which is the counting-house of the African traders.
On the afternoon of which we speak things were quiet at the offices.
The line of pigeon-holes in the wire curtain was deserted by the public, though the linoleum-covered floor bore abundant traces of a busy morning.

Misty London light shone hazily through the glazed windows and cast dark shadows in the corners.

On a high perch in the background a weary-faced, elderly man, with muttering lips and tapping fingers, cast up endless lines of figures.

Beneath him, in front of two long shining mahogany desks, half a score of young men, with bent heads and stooping shoulders, appeared to be riding furiously, neck and neck, in the race of life.

Any _habitue_ of a London office might have deduced from their relentless energy and incorruptible diligence that they were under the eyes of some member of the firm.
The member in question was a broad-shouldered, bull-necked young man, who leaned against the marble mantel-piece, turning over the pages of an almanac, and taking from time to time a stealthy peep over the top of it at the toilers around him.