she would trap them.

"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