One morning he was sitting at his desk at the Stannaries Office, mechanically opening his correspondence and arranging the papers before him--as usual he had been the first to arrive, and none of his colleagues were present--when Paul Derinzy entered the room. George noticed with regret that his friend's appearance had altered very much for the worse during the last few days. His face looked wan and peaked, his usual sallow complexion had changed to a dead-white, and the expression of his eyes was dull and lustreless. There never was much power of work in Paul; but there had been next to nothing lately. George had noticed him sitting at his desk, his eyes bent vacantly on the paper before him, his thoughts evidently very far away. Since their return, there has not been very much interchange of confidence between them; but George knows perfectly well that matters are not going quite straight in Paul's relations with Daisy, and that the lad is spiritless and miserable in consequence. George Wainwright's great heart would at any time have compassionated his friend's position; but under present circumstances he was especially able to appreciate and sympathise with the position. "At it as usual, George," said Paul, after the first curt salutation. "How you have the heart to stick to this confounded grind in the way you do, quite beats me. I begin to loathe the place, and the papers, and all the infernal lot." And with an indignant sweep of his arm he cleared a space in front of him, and resting his face on his hands, sat contemplating his friend. "Begin to loathe, my dear Paul?" said George, with a slight smile; "I thought you had progressed pretty well long ago in your hatred to the state of life to which you have been called. Yes, I am grinding away as usual, and indeed have put a little extra power on just now." "What!" said Paul, with a look of disgust at a large array of tape-tied official documents neatly spread out before his friend; "are those infernal papers heavier than ever?" "No, not that," said George; "there seems to be about the usual number of them; but I want to make a clearance, and not to leave the slightest arrear when I go away." "Go away!" repeated Paul. "What do you mean? You have only just returned; you don't mean to say you are going away again?" "That is really delicious," said George; "you, who have had your full six weeks' leave, turn round and fling my poor little fortnight in my teeth. Yes, I actually purpose taking the remainder of my holiday; a great crime, no doubt, but one which must be excused under special circumstances. I am a little overworked, and not a little out of sorts; and I find I must get away at once." "Not at once," said Paul, with a half-comic look at his friend; "I don't think I would go away just now, if I were you." "Why not?" asked George. "Because you might miss seeing some people for whom you have, as I believe, a great regard," said Paul, with the same quaint expression.