e sapphires were hers!

Later, she stole to the library door and peered in. Thomas was at his
desk. For a long time she watched him. He appeared restless, uneasy.
He nibbled the penholder, rumpled his hair, picked up the ivory
elephant and balanced it, plunged furiously into work again, paused,
stared at the Persian carpet, turned the inkwell around, worked,
paused, sighed. Thomas was very unhappy. This state of mind was quite
evident to Kitty. Kissed her and hadn't wanted to. He was unlike any
young man she knew.

Presently he began to scribble aimlessly on the blotter. All at once
he flung down the pen, rose and walked out through the casement-doors,
down toward the sea. Kitty's curiosity was irresistible. She ran over
to the blotter.

Fool!

Blighter!

Rotter!

Double-dyed ass!

Blockhead!

Kitty Killigrew--(scratched out)!

Nincompoop!

Haberdasher!

Ass!

All of which indicated to the investigator that Thomas for the present
had not a high opinion of himself. An ordinary young woman would have
laughed herself into hysterics. Kitty tore off the scribbles, not the
least sign of laughter in her eyes, and sought the window-seat in the
living-room. There was one word which stood out strangely alien:
haberdasher. Why that word? Was it a corner of the curtain she had
been striving to look behind? Had Thomas been a haberdasher prior to
his stewardship? And was he ashamed of the fact?

Haberdasher.

What's the matter with that word? If it irked Thomas it irked Kitty no
less. It is a part of youth to crave for high-sounding names and
occupations. It is in the mother's milk they feed on. Mothers dream
of their babes growing up into presidents or at least ambassadors, if
sons; titles and brilliant literary salons, if daughters. What living
mother would harbor a dream of a clerkship in a haberdasher's shop?
Perish the thought! Myself for years was told that I had as good a
chance as anybody of being president of the United States; a far better
chance than many, being as I was _my_ mother's son.

Irish blood and romance will always be mysteriously intertwined.
Haberdasher did not fit in anywhere with Kitty's projects; it was
off-key, a jarring note. Whoever heard of a haberdasher's clerk
reading _Morte d'Arthur_ and writing sonnets? She was reasonably
certain that while Thomas had jotted it down in scornful
self-flagellation, it occupied a place somewhere in his past.

"They tu