fered the book to her. _Morte d'Arthur_. Kitty's eyebrows, a
hundred years or more ago, would have stirred to tender lyrics the
quills of Prior and Lovelace and Suckling: arched when interested, a
funny little twist to the inner points when angered, and when laughter
possessed her. . . . Let Thomas indite the sonnet! Just now they were
widely arched.

"I am very fond of the book," explained Thomas diffidently. "I love
the pompous gallantry of these fairy chaps. How politely they used to
hack each other into pieces!"

"Are you by chance a university man?"

"No. I am self-educated, if one may call it that. My father was a
fellow at Trinity. For myself, I have always had to work."

"Do you like your present occupation?"

"It was the best I could find." How he would have liked to throw
discretion to the winds and tell her the whole miserable story!

"Are you good at accounting?"

"Fairly." What was all this about? He began to riffle the leaves of
the book, restively.

"Could you tell an honest man from a dishonest one?"

"I believe so." Thomas had eyebrows, too, but he did not know how to
use them properly. Tell an honest man from a dishonest one, forsooth!

Kitty found the situation less easy than she had anticipated. The more
questions she asked, the more embarrassed she grew; and it angered her
because there was no clear reason why she should become embarrassed.
And she also remarked his uneasiness. However, she went on
determinedly.

"Have you ever had any contact with real poverty?"

"Yes,"--close-lipped. "Pardon me, Miss Killigrew, but . . ."

"Just a moment, Mr. Webb," she interrupted. "I dare say my questions
seem impertinent, but they have a purpose back of them. My mother and
I are looking for a private secretary for a charitable concern which we
are going to organize shortly. We desire some one who is educated, who
will be capable of guarding us from persons not worthy of benefactions,
who will make recommendations, seek into the affairs of those
considered worthy. We shall, of course, expect to find room for you.
It will not be a chatter-tea-drinking affair. You will have the
evenings to yourself and all of Sundays. The salary will be two
hundred a month."

"Pounds?" gasped Thomas.

"Oh, no; dollars. I do not expect your answer at this moment. You
must have time to think it over."

"It is not necessary, Miss Killigrew."

"You decline?"

"On the contrary, I accept