The Safety Pin

"Young lady," Simmons said. "Wants to consult you." Shelmore took the card mechanically and stared at the neat script. Of course this was the girl he had just seen from his window. And this that he was staring at would be her name...Miss Cynthia Pretty, St. Meliot's, Camborne. Camborne! Why, Camborne was a good two or three hundred miles away, in Cornwall! What...he suddenly looked up, nodded at his clerk, and, drawing off his gloves and removing his hat, turned to his desk, as to a refuge. But being there again, his eyes went to the door... He got a general impression of Miss Cynthia Pretty as Simmons showed her in. She was tall, and she was slim and willowy, as he had thought at first, and she was undeniably attractive. He was not sure whether her hair was gold...deep gold or whether it weren't a bit reddish; he was uncertain, too, about her eyes, whether they were blue or whether they were violet...anyway, the lot of her, put together, lighted up the office. And she was young...perhaps nineteen, perhaps twenty; he couldn't tell; certainly she was very young. And suddenly he felt very young and a little small himself. For at sight of him, Miss Cynthia Pretty let out an involuntary exclamation. "Oh!" she said, pausing between the door and the desk. "Are...are you the Mr. Shelmore whose name is on the door downstairs. You are? Oh! Well, you look so awfully young to be a solicitor. And it's a solicitor I want."