It was a moment at which to summon all his wits together to attend to business; but he was astonished at the coolness and lightness of heart with which he did it.  After those brief, sudden vows exchanged, it was as easy to dismiss Evie Colfax momentarily from his mind as it is to forget money troubles on inheriting a fortune.  Nevertheless as he got himself ready to deal with practical, and probably quite commercial, topics, he was fully conscious of the rapture of her love, while he was scarcely less aware of a comfort closely akin to joy in feeling that the burden of decision had been lifted from him.  Since Fate had taken the matter into her own hands, she could be charged with the full responsibility.

* * * * *

Mr. Jarrott, who was smoking a cigar and sipping his after-dinner coffee, was in evening dress, but wore his house-jacket—­a circumstance of which Strange did not know the significance, though he felt its effect.  The old man’s welcome was not unlike that of a shy father trying to break the shackles of reserve with a home-coming son.  He pushed Strange gently into the most comfortable arm-chair beside which he drew up a small table for the cigar-box, the ash-tray, and the matches.  He rang for another cup, and brought the coffee with his own hands.  Strange remembered how often, after a hard day’s work, he had been made uncomfortable by just such awkward, affectionate attentions from poor old Monsieur Durand.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Mr. Jarrott began, when they were both seated, “but you’ve done well to come.  I’m afraid we’re in for a regular upset all round.”

“I hope it isn’t going to make things harder for you, sir,” Strange ventured, in the tone of personal concern which his kindly treatment seemed to warrant him in taking.

“It won’t if I can get the right men into the right places.  That’ll be the tough part of the business.  The wool department will suffer by Mr. Skinner’s absence—­he’s very ill, in my opinion—­and there’s only one man who can take his place.”  Strange felt his heart throbbing and the color rising to his face.  He did not covet the position, for he disliked the wool department; but it was undeniably a “rise,” and right along the line of highest promotion.  “That’s Jenkins,” Mr. Jarrott finished, quietly.

Strange said nothing.  After all, he was relieved.  Mr. Jarrott did not go on at once, but when he did speak Strange fell back into the depths of his arm-chair, in an attitude suggestive of physical collapse.

“And if Jenkins came back here,” the old man pursued, “you’d have to take his place in New York.”

Strange concealed his agitation by puffing out successive rings of smoke.  If he had not long ago considered what he would say should this proposal ever be made to him, he would have been even more overcome than he actually was.  He had meant to oppose the offer with a point-blank refusal, but what had happened within the last quarter of an hour had so modified this judgment that he could only sit, turning things rapidly over in his mind, till more was said.