NEARLY a week had elapsed since Robert Vyner’s failure to give satisfaction as a light porter, and in all that time, despite his utmost efforts, he had failed to set eyes on Joan Hartley. In the hope of a chance encounter he divided his spare time between the narrow, crooked streets of Salthaven and the deck of the _Indian Chief_, but in vain. In a mysterious and highly unsatisfactory fashion Miss Hartley seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. In these circumstances he manifested a partiality for the company of Mr. Hartley that was a source of great embarrassment to that gentleman, whose work rapidly accumulated while he sat in his old office discussing a wide range of subjects, on all of which the junior partner seemed equally at home and inclined to air views of the most unorthodox description. He passed from topic to topic with bewildering facility, and one afternoon glided easily and naturally from death duties to insect powder, and from that to maggots in rose-buds, almost before his bewildered listener could take breath. From rose-buds he discoursed on gardening—a hobby to which he professed himself desirous of devoting such few hours as could be spared from his arduous work as a member of the firm. “I hear that your garden is the talk of Salthaven,” he remarked. Mr. Hartley, justly surprised, protested warmly. “That’s what I heard,” said Mr. Vyner, doggedly. Mr. Hartley admitted that his borders were good. He also gave favourable mention to his roses. “My favourite flower,” said Mr. Vyner, with enthusiasm. “I’ll bring you a bunch to-morrow, if you will let me,” said Mr. Hartley, rising and turning toward the door. The other stopped him with outstretched hand. “No, don’t do that,” he said, earnestly. “I hate cutting flowers. It seems such a—a—desecration.” Mr. Hartley, quite unprepared for so much feeling on the subject, gazed at him in astonishment. “I should like to see them, too,” said Robert, musingly, “very much.” The chief clerk, with a little deprecatory cough, got close to the door as a dim idea that there might be something after all in Captain Trimblett’s warnings occurred to him. “Yours are mostly standard roses, aren’t they?” said the persevering Robert. “Mostly,” was the reply. Mr. Vyner regarded him thoughtfully. “I suppose you don’t care to let people see them for fear they should learn your methods?” he said, at last. Mr. Hartley, coming away from the door, almost stuttered in his haste to disclaim such ungenerous sentiments. “I am always glad to show them,” he said, emphatically, “and to give any information I can.” “I should like to see them some time,” murmured Robert. The other threw caution to the winds. “Any time,” he said, heartily.