Here came Matthew Trenchard upon a question of temperature. The talk concerned technical details of ventilation and did not take long, since Trood and his master seldom differed. But there was a more doubtful human problem upon which Trenchard desired to learn Trood’s opinion. “I’ve heard from Kellock,” he said, “and before I answer him, I want to hear you speak—also Pinhey.” “It’s not likely that Nicholas Pinhey and me would say the same,” answered Ernest. “We differ where we can on most subjects, and shall on this, I reckon.” “He won’t influence me—more will you,” answered Trenchard. “You and I will probably think alike, as we’re used to do. What I want from Nicholas has to do with Mrs. Dingle, who works in the glazing house—or did. Let’s go into the flat room and I’ll send for him.” The flat room was another chamber for paper drying. Hither came the great sheets of “double elephant” and “imperial”—precious and wonderful papers for the artist and draughtsman, that could not be hung over a rope or creased. They rested upon beds of webbing, which were lifted one above the other and offered free access to the warm air that plied through them. Here dried noble sheets of a quality that rejoiced the painter who touched their surface, and felt their solid texture. Nicholas Pinhey, spotless and trim, with shining spectacles and a white apron, appeared and Mr. Trenchard briefly stated the situation. He was carrying a “cross,” the little tool used to hang the paper on the lines, and he tapped his points against the wall of the flat room as he uttered them. “It seems Kellock, who is on holiday, has run away with Mrs. Dingle. I’ve just heard from him stating the facts as far as they may be supposed to concern me. He doesn’t seem to think it is anybody’s business but his own.” “A man may be ill and not know it,” said Mr. Pinhey, “and he may be suffering from the sickness of sin and not know it. But we know it.” “I’m not a sin-doctor—I’m a paper maker, Nicholas. And the sole question for me is whether Kellock comes back, or does not. He writes very decently, says he is prepared to justify his conduct if I feel it is any concern of mine, and adds that he will be well pleased to return if I want him.” “Don’t let him slip, for the Lord’s sake,” begged Ernest Trood. “You’ll wait a month of Sundays before you’ll get another vatman in the same street as him. Vatmen will be as rare as curates very soon. He’s a most orderly chap and a rare worker, which the clever ones often are not, and a great believer in discipline. You may be sure, according to his lights, that he’s done the best for all parties in this matter of Medora Dingle.” “How can you, Trood?” asked Mr. Pinhey indignantly. “And you call yourself a Christian man, for I’ve heard you do it.” “The mistake you make, Nicholas, is to drag religion into a lot of things where it don’t belong,” answered Trood.