“Francis, where…?”
She nods me to the door. “He’s in his office, Mrs Haswell.”
“I wish you’d call me Beth.”
“He’s in his office, Beth,” she smiles. “I don’t think you’re interrupting him.”
BethStill, I don’t like to just walk in. I tap on the door, but it’s not closed, swinging open under the pressure from my hand.
My Master’s office is huge, open and uncluttered. His desk is large, but not overly so, with room to work on his laptop, or to write by hand if he wishes. In and out trays take up some of the surface, but I know that Francis intercepts a lot of his mail before it reaches him.
One end of the office is occupied by a conference table. Another area is laid out with a coffee table and comfortable seating. A filing cabinet behind his desk stands beside a set of plan drawers, wid
