usly. He invariably expressed his
emotions with his handkerchief. He used it strategically, tactically,
defensively, continuously. It was to him what the lines of Torres
Vedras were to Wellington. He retired behind its sheltering folds, to
emerge a moment later, his forces reorganised and re-arrayed. When at
a loss what to say or do, it was his handkerchief upon which he fell
back; if he required time in which to think, he did it behind its ample
and protecting folds.

"You see, me dear," said Mr. Triggs at length, avoiding Patricia's
relentless gaze, as he proceeded to stuff away the handkerchief in his
tail pocket. "You see, me dear----" Again he paused. "You see, me
dear," he began for a third time, "I thought you was frettin' over your
work or something, when you ought to be enjoyin' yourself," he lied.

Patricia looked at him, her conscience smiting her. She smiled
involuntarily.

"I never fret about anything except when you don't come to see me," she
said gaily.

Mr. Triggs beamed with good-humour, his fears now quite dispelled.

"You're run down, me dear," he said with decision. "You want an
'oliday. I must speak to A. B. about it."

"If you do I shall be very angry," said Patricia; "Mr. Bonsor is always
very kind and considerate."

"It--it isn't----" began Mr. Triggs, then paused.

"It isn't what?" Patricia smiled at his look of concern.

"If--if it is," began Mr. Triggs. Again he paused, then added with a
gulp, "Couldn't I lend you some?"

For a moment Patricia failed to follow the drift of his remark, then
when she appreciated that he was offering to lend her money she
flushed. For a moment she did not reply, then seeing the anxiety
stamped upon his kindly face, she said with great deliberation:

"I think you must be quite the nicest man in all the world. If ever I
decide to borrow money I'll come to you first."

Mr. Triggs blushed like a schoolboy. He had fully anticipated being
snubbed. He had found from experience that Patricia had of late become
very uncertain in her moods.

They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Bonsor.

"'Ere, A. B.!" cried Mr. Triggs. "What do you mean by it?"

"Mean by what?" enquired Mr. Bonsor, busy with an imaginary speech upon
street noises, suggested by a barrel-piano in the distance.

"You're working 'er too 'ard, A. B.," said Mr. Triggs with conviction.

"Working who too hard?" Mr. Bonsor looked helplessly at Patricia. He
was always