If a client entered, one of the six, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give their attention to the books before them.
One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs.St.Pierre Lawrence was admitted by the concierge.

She noted that only one clerk gave heed to her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs.
"Of the six young men in your office," she observed, when she was seated in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner's writing-table, "only one appears to be in full possession of his senses." Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile.
"I don't pay them to admire my clients," he replied.
"If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would not look up." John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table.
"If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their business," he replied, in his thick, slow voice.

"But he won't.

He is not one of my clients.

Quite the contrary." Mrs.St.Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket and glanced sideways at her banker.