“One brother in South Africa,” my lips answered mechanically. And my inward wonder, “_What on earth has that got to do with Mr. Waters?_” was mingled with an added dull twinge of anxiety. For I haven’t heard from poor old rolling-stoney Jack for three months or more. “No one belonging to you in London? M’m. And you’re dependent for your living upon what you earn here?” (Yes! or else I shouldn’t have to sit here answering questions about things that are absolutely no business of yours! was what I thought rebelliously.) I said aloud, reluctantly, “Yes.” “Where do you live, then—alone?” “I share rooms with another girl in Battersea,” I had to tell him, still wondering resentfully what in the world might be the meaning of this catechism. _Wasn’t_ it the prelude to dismissal, after all, then? _Wasn’t_ he preparing to be hateful and sarcastic, and to tell me he felt my talents were being wasted at the Near Oriental (this is one of Mr. Dundonald’s pet _clichés_), and that he advised me to look out elsewhere for a better position at a higher salary—if I could get it? What _would_ be the next question, then? It was _the_ last thing that I should have dreamed of his asking. “Do you mind telling me, Miss Trant, whether you are engaged to be married?” Engaged? I? What _could_ he want to know that for? That was less his business, even, than any of the other questions he’d put! It seemed doubly odd, since I _had_ been meditating on the possibility of “getting engaged” that very morning. Ever since twelve o’clock, the mental image of Sydney Vandeleur’s picturesque, dark face, with his small Vandyke beard and gentle, adoring brown eyes, had been very near me. There was always Sydney in the background, of course. Backgrounds don’t count, presumably. Even if they did, though, what concern was it of my business employer’s? I did wish I had enough self-assurance to announce frankly, “Well, I _do_ mind telling you, as a matter of fact!” But ... twenty-five shillings a week don’t provide a girl with much self-assurance! I could only let him have the literal answer in return for his direct (and unwarrantable) question. “Oh, no; I’m not engaged.” “Good!” said Still Waters briskly. (Why “good”?) “Now, Miss Trant, I can tell you the reason—or part of the reason—I sent for you this afternoon. I must begin by impressing upon you very definitely that”—here he paused, and at each word of the announcement tapped solemnly on the big desk with his finger—“I don’t want to get married myself.” “Of course not!” I almost gasped, wondering what in the world this very obvious truth (for one _could_ not imagine Still Waters in connection with marriage or engagements) had got to do with me?