“Would you like to go to the picnic this afternoon?”—­with a spirit which was wholly kind.

“Very much indeed; but I can’t”—­indicating the stack of papers on his desk.

“Oh,” listlessly.

“I am very poor, Miss Killigrew, and perhaps I am ambitious.”

Her lips parted expectantly.

“Your father has promised to give me a chance on his coffee plantations in Brazil this autumn, and I wish to show him that I know how to grind.  Plug, isn’t that the American for it?” He smiled across the desk.  “I wish to prove to you all that I am grateful.  Your father, who knows something of men, says there is one hidden away in me somewhere, if only I’ll take the trouble to dig it out.  I should like to be with you and your guests all the time.  I like play, and I have been very lonely all my life.”  He fingered the papers irresolutely.  “My place is here, not with your guests; there’s the width of the poles between us.  I ought not to know anything about the pleasures of idleness till the day comes when I can afford to.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted.  What an agreeable voice he had!  Perhaps neither of them was a rogue; only a wild pair of Englishmen embarked on a dangerous frolic.  “Don’t forget to give Lord Monckton his monocle.”

“I shan’t.”

Kitty departed, smiling.  Her thought was:  he had kissed her and hadn’t wanted to! (Ah, but he had; and not till long hours after did he realize that there had been as much Thomas as Machiavelli in that futile inspiration!)

Report 47, on the difference between the shipments to Europe and America.  Very dry, very dull; what with the glorious sunshine outside and the chance to play, Report 47 was damnable.  A bird-like peck at the inkwell, and the pen began to scratch-scratch-scratch.  He was twenty-four; by the time he was thirty he ought to . . .

“Beg pardon, sir!”

Lord Monckton’s valet stood before the desk.  Thomas did not like this man, with his soundless approaches, his thin nervous fingers, his brilliant roving eyes.  Where had he been picked up?  A perfect servant, yes; but it seemed to Thomas that the man was always expecting some one to come up behind him.  Those quick cat-like glances over his shoulder were not reassuring.  Dark, swarthy; and yet that odd white scar in the scalp above his ear.  That ought to have been dark, logically.

“What is it?”

“Lord Monckton has dropped his glass somewhere, sir, and he sent me to inquire, sir.”

“Oh, here it is.  And tell your master to be very careful of it.  Some one might step on it.”

“Thank you, sir.”  The valet departed as noiselessly as he had entered.

“Really,” mused Thomas, “there’s a rum chap.  I don’t like him around.  He gives me the what-d’-y’-call-it.”