He paced his dignified way to his den. Gordon Selsbury once rowed six in the Varsity boat--there were crossed oars above his fireplace, though he thought the display in bad taste. He had once been a fresher whose chief joy in life had been to steal policemen’s helmets and ride a bicycle down forbidden pathways, and to sprint from proctors. It seemed difficult to believe. He was tall and good-looking in the Apollo Belvedere manner. Fair, with a forehead which was large and thoughtful, he baffled instant analysis by carrying through life two inches of sidewhisker on either cheek. Men seeing him first thought he wrote music or played a ’cello. Women on introduction guessed him as a dancer of amazing agility, or possibly a film artist. “Trenter....” Trenter waited, his head attentively thrust forward, a simulation of intense interest on his sharp features. He continued to wait, even as Gordon continued to frown at the fireplace. “Trenter....” “Yes, sir?” Slowly Mr. Selsbury turned his head until his eyes met Trenter’s. “I saw you kissing the parlourmaid this morning. You are a married man, I believe?” Trenter blinked apprehensively. He was indeed married. “I do not wish that sort of thing to happen again,” said Gordon, mildly scandalised. “You are a married man with responsibilities which cannot be ignored or set on one side. Eleanor, as I understand her name to be, is a young girl, possibly inflammable, certainly impressionable. To cloud a young girl’s life by awakening in her heart a passion which you cannot return is most reprehensible. Even I have been rocked by the current which the stone you cast has set into motion. My shaving water was late this morning. This must not occur again.” “No, sir,” said Trenter. News comes instantly to the servants’ hall in any event. Now, telepathy lagged behind Trenter’s spoken word. Eleanor, tall, svelte, pallid of face, black eyebrows and eyes that flashed, interrupted the operation of a lip-stick to listen. She was tremulously indignant. “Because he’s a St. Andrew, does he think that we haven’t any human feelings? The poor cold-blooded fish! I’ll let him know that I won’t be talked about and my name took away--taken away, I mean--by a prying, sneaking, rubber-soled spy. He is too!” “Who’s this St. Andrew?” Trenter was suspicious of all saints, being by marriage a Primitive Baptist. “He’s the man that women tempted and he wouldn’t,” said Eleanor, prepared to drop the illustration. But Trenter was of another mind. “Who’s been tempting him?” he asked, darkling eyed. “Nobody: not if it’s me you mean. I’d like to see him put his arm round _my_ waist! He’d never forget it!” “He wouldn’t forget himself anyway,” said Trenter, relieved. She tossed her head sceptically. “Oh, I don’t know!” she said, and nodded to a warm, large woman in the gingham and apron of her profession. “Ask cook!” Trenter was dazed. “Good God!--not you, cook?” he asked in a whisper.