A Matter of Tempo

A frantic clatter reached me from across the desk. I strolled over—unhurriedly, of course, letting my chain pool neatly in my wake—to inspect the source. It was a compact brass alarm clock, ticking with the breathless desperation of an amateur running late for a train. I leaned against a heavy brass paperweight, observing its vibrating second hand with quiet pity. Such dreadful agitation over mere seconds. I laid one plush hand upon its wound-up bell until the harsh vibration softened into something moderately polite. One really ought to cultivate a little more decorum when keeping time.