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  Name: Ghulam Mustafa Name of Institute: Pakistan Shorthand Institute (Ghulam Mustafa) Personal Assistant in Women Development Department, Punjab Civil Secretariat Lahore.

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700 Common Words Exercise No. 7 Longhand & Shorthand

It was not often that Mr. Wells left his house for every many hours with no one in it. During the day Miss Black was there for most of the time. Miss Black could not be called his housekeeper, as he himself kept watch on the stores and on the money spent. In fact, he bought most of the food, cleaning materials, and so on, on his way some from the office, and merely passed them to Miss Black to put away. No, Miss Black could not be given the high-sounding name of housekeeper, but neither could she be called the woman who did for him. She fell somewhere between these two high and low points. She was a daily help of the most valuable kind, and she looked after the house of Mr. Wells with as much care as she would have looked after her own, and in the evening she went off, and even Mr. Wells did not know where she went or what she did. During the day, therefore, his house was in good hands. In the evening there was himself and there was his brother. Generally they were both at home, for neither of them was much given to going out. They did not like parties and they did not like the pictures. They did not care to pay high prices to see plays which, in their opinion, were generally not worth the money that had to be spent in getting up to town and paying for a reasonable place. Neither of the men had married, and neither had a regular girl friend. Their evenings were, therefore, generally spent in the house, and it was the house that they both loved more than any other thing in the world. It was certainly a lovely little house, for enough away from the City to be almost in the country. It was peaceful and there were good views from the windows. From the outside it looked in most ways much like the home of anyone with a reasonably well-paid position in the City. Few people ever stepped inside but those who did were greatly surprised, for certainly the inside of the house was not in any way like the common run of houses. It was full of the most valuable things, all carefully placed and marked. What had been two living rooms had been made into one every large room in the form of the letter L. The room was white and as clean as if it had been in the hands of the painter that very day. Everything in the room was clearly a show-piece, something bought at a sale and for which a high price had had to be paid. The pictures were Old Masters and the books were beautiful covered .The table and all other pieces had been carefully bought one by one, as opportunity and money made such buying possible. It was such a room as one might expect to find in one of the great houses built in a past age, but no one could possibly except to see anything of the kind in such a place. The room was priceless, for many of the objects could not be found for a second time. And so the brothers spent their evenings and week-ends among their much-loved objects of art, and tried to make still more perfect that which was already perfection. It was not often, as we have said, that Mr. Wells left his house with neither his brother nor Miss Black in it. But on that night he had done so. Work had kept him late in the City, and his brother had not been well and had gone away to have a small but necessary operation. Miss Black had left at 5.30 as usual. Mr. Wells red his paper while waiting for the 8.45 train home, but the train was late in starting as there was some mist in places along the line, and it stopped several times before reaching his station. He got out and walked towards his home. The mist in the air seemed to have a red touch, he thought, as he walked on. Then he had a feeling of fear, of cold fear, for without doubt something was on fire, something was burning. He broke into a run, and then he stopped. After all, it was not his house that was on fire, his own most beautiful and loved house. It was the house immediately behind his. But at the moment of his fear he saw his life clearly for the first time. He saw that he had spent his years loving cold and lifeless objects. He saw that he loved no living being and that no living being loved him or cared that he was late home that night that he was cold and had known fear.