Be spared from the children and the family meals, the parson, the
Reverend James Mavor Morell does his work. He is sitting in a strong
round backed revolving chair at the

right hand end of a long table, which stands across the window, so that
he can cheer himself with
the view of the park at his elbow. At the opposite end of the table,
adjoining it, is a little table; only half the width of the other, with
a typewriter on it. His typist is sitting at this machine, with her back
to the window. The large table is littered with pamphlets, journals,
letters, nests of drawers, an office diary, postage scales and the like.
A spare chair for visitors having business with the parson is in the
middle, turned to his end. Within reach of his hand is
a stationery case, and a cabinet photograph in a frame. Behind him the
right hand wall, recessed above the fireplace, is fitted with
bookshelves, on which an adept eye can measure the parson’s divinity and
casuistry by a complete set of Browning’s poems and Maurice’s
Theological Essays, and guess at his politics from a yellow backed
Progress and Poverty, Fabian Essays, a Dream of John Ball, Marx’s
Capital, and half a dozen other literary landmarks in Socialism.
Opposite him on the left,
near the typewriter, is the door