roved of them, he
could discriminate; and there was that about the newsboy which somehow
disarmed him. He went so far as to heap the plate of the lad, and would
have poured the coffee too, but that his master took the pot from his
hand and with a nod and a smile dismissed him; and his master's smile
was worth a good deal to Gleg. It was an exacting if well-paid service,
for Ian Stafford was the most particular man in Europe, and he had
grown excessively so during the past three years, which, as Gleg
observed, had brought great, if quiet, changes in him. He had grown
more studious, more watchful, more exclusive in his daily life, and
ladies of all kinds he had banished from direct personal share in his
life. There were no more little tea-parties and dejeuners chez lui,
duly chaperoned by some gracious cousin or aunt--for there was no
embassy in Europe where he had not relatives.

"'Ipped--a bit 'ipped. 'E 'as found 'em out, the 'uzzies," Gleg had
observed; for he had decided that the general cause of the change in
his master was Woman, though he did not know the particular woman who
had 'ipped him.

As the lad ate his wonderful breakfast, in which nearly half a pot of
marmalade and enough butter for three ordinary people figured, Stafford
read the papers attentively, to give his guest a fair chance at the
food and to overcome his self-consciousness. He got an occasional
glance at the trencherman, however, as he changed the sheets, stepped
across the room to get a cigarette, or poked the small fire--for, late
September as it was, a sudden cold week of rain had come and gone,
leaving the air raw; and a fire was welcome.

At last, when he realized that the activities of the table were
decreasing, he put down his paper. "Is it all right?" he asked. "Is the
coffee hot?"

"I ain't never 'ad a meal like that, y'r gryce, not never any time,"
the boy answered, with a new sort of fire in his eyes.

"Was there enough?"

"I've left some," answered his guest, looking at the jar of marmalade
and half a slice of toast. "I likes the coffee hot--tykes y'r longer to
drink it," he added.

Ian Stafford chuckled. He was getting more than the worth of his money.
He had nibbled at his own breakfast, with the perturbations of a
crossing from Flushing still in his system, and its equilibrium not
fully restored; and yet, with the waste of his own meal and the neglect
of his own appetite, he had given a great and happy half-hour to a waif