He sat down at his desk, glancing at the morning’s letters, arranged by Mabel in a neat little pile. The topmost letter contained Hunsaker’s cheque for eleven hundred pounds, and a few cordial lines reminding his dear sir that he hoped to call at eleven, and that he might bring a friend with him, an expert of Chippendale furniture. Quinney frowned, resenting the introduction of an expert. But he reflected comfortably that the chairs were already cased. He opened the other letters, and then began to deal faithfully with each correspondent in turn. He dictated these letters after his own fashion. It was Mabel’s task to adjust grammatical errors and to eliminate slang. He had grown fond of Mabel because she was competent and tactful. "I think that will do, my dear." Mabel rose quietly, shutting her notebook. She used a small room, where she kept her machine and a copying-press and other paraphernalia appertaining to secretarial duties. Unconsciously, she sighed. "Lookin’ peaky, you are," said her employer. Mabel retorted indifferently: "Weather affects me. Seems even to have affected you, sir." "Ho! Observant young miss! But you’re wrong. Weather don’t affect me; and it oughtn’t to affect a healthy young woman like you. Sleep badly?" "Ye-es." "Same here." The need of sympathy gripped him. He was so sorry for himself that he felt sorry for this white-faced typist, whom hitherto he had regarded as a machine. "Beastly, ain’t it?" She nodded, and he continued, speaking rather to himself than to her: "To toss about, tinglin’ all over, with one’s thoughts in a ferment! Perfectly disgustin’!" Mabel smiled faintly. "I’ve a lot on my mind just now," he went on, "a bigger load than I care to carry—immense responsibilities, see?" She opened her eyes, wondering what had evoked this amazing confidence, little guessing that the habit of years was behind it. He had always talked to Susan about his affairs, poured them into ears now deaf in the hour of sorest need. "Sit down," he commanded. "There’s no hurry. I’m expecting Mr. Tomlin." "I beg your pardon; I forgot to mention it. I have a message from Mr. Miggott. His respects, and he wants to see you if you can spare a few minutes." "Ho! Well, I can’t see him yet. He must wait my convenience. Sit you down!" Mabel obeyed, blushing slightly, because Quinney’s eyes were so piercing. She was quite unaware that she had betrayed herself in the pronunciation of a name. At no other time, probably, would Quinney have leapt to the conclusion that James was behind her trouble as certainly as he was behind his own. He hated James. It hurt him to hear his name softly murmured. "Any of your people ill, my dear?" "No." "Not in debt, are you?" "Certainly not." "Not sufferin’ from neuralgia, or toothache, or anything of that sort?" "I am in excellent health, sir." "Then, my girl, you’re in love."