"You will have the opportunity of making his better acquaintance, Mr. Ollivera. He is the noblest and grandest man the world ever saw. I don't mean in looks--though he might compete for a prize on that score--but for goodness and greatness. Hamish is at the top of the tree, but Arthur caps him." Arthur Channing and his qualities did not bear interest for Mr. Ollivera just then; he had no time to attend to them. Saying a pleasant word in answer, he departed. Almost close upon that, Sir Richard Yorke came in, and went into the private room. "Perhaps something has turned up about the cheque, and he's come to tell it," cried idle Roland. "I say, Mr. Brown, did you ever hear how they all keep up the ball about that Godfrey Pitman? Mrs. J. was describing him to me the other night. She and Miss Alletha came to an issue about his personal charms: the one saying his eyes were blue, the other brown. Remembering the fable of the chameleon, I decided they must have been green. I'd not like to joke about him, though"--dropping his light tone--"if he really had a hand in John Ollivera's death. What do you think?" "What I think is this, Mr. Yorke. As the person in question has nothing to do with my work or yours, I am content to let him alone. I should be exceedingly obliged to you to get that copy done for me." "I'll get it done," said ready Roland. "There are such interruptions in this office, you see." He was working away at a steaming pace, when Sir Richard Yorke came forth again, talking with Bede Greatorex. Roland slipped off his stool, and brought his tall self in his uncle's path. "How are you, Sir Richard?" Sir Richard's little eyes went blinking out, and he condescended to recognize Roland. "Oh, ah, to be sure. You are one of the clerks here! Hope you keep out of debt, young man." "I try to," said Roland. "I get a pound a week, and live upon it. It is not much for all things. One has to enjoy champagne and iced turtle through the shop-windows." "Ah," said Sir Richard slowly, rubbing his hands together as if he were washing them of undesirable connections, "this comes of being a rover. You should do as Gerald does: work to keep up a position. I read an able article in the _Snarler_ last night, which was pointed out to me as Gerald Yorke's. He works to some purpose, he does." "If Gerald works he spends," was on the tip of his tongue. But he kept it in: it was rare indeed that his good-nature failed him. "How is Vincent?" he asked. Vincent was very well, Sir Richard vouchsafed to reply, and went out, rubbing his hands still. So, with one interlude or another, Roland's morning was got through. When released, he went flying in search of Annabel Channing, to impart to her the great news contained in her brother's letter.