It was Miss Somers' turn to make the tea. Miss Somers was the newest typist and the least efficient. She was no longer young, and her expression carried a slight anxiety that resembled a sheep. The water had not yet boiled when Miss Somers poured it into the tea, but poor Miss Somers was never quite sure when the water boiled. It was one of the many worries that troubled her life.
She served the tea and distributed the cups with one or two soft, sweet cookies on each saucer. Miss Griffith, the very efficient head typist, a stern gray-haired woman who had worked at United Investments for sixteen years, said sharply: "The water didn’t boil again, Somers!" Miss Somers' anxious, gentle face flushed, and she said: "It can’t be, this time I was sure it boiled!"
Miss Griffith thought: Maybe she’ll stay for another month, as long as we have so much work... But it’s impossible! The fool messed up the letter to Eastern Development – it was the easiest job. And she can’t even make a proper cup of tea. If it weren’t so hard to find smart typists – she also didn’t close the lid properly on the cookie tin. It’s impossible–
Like many other frustrated internal thoughts of Miss Griffith, the sentence was left unfinished. At that moment, Miss Grosvenor stormed in to make Mr. Fortesky’s sacred tea. Mr. Fortesky drank a different tea, in different china, and with separate cookies. Only the kettle and the tap water in the kitchenette were the same. In this case, however, because it was Mr. Fortesky’s tea, the water boiled. Miss Grosvenor made sure of that.