But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped herself to butter, honey, and a thick slice of brown bread when the door opened and her father’s secretary walked into the room. Laurence Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when he was not entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and dark, with a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the modern heroic manner. “Afternoon, Mr. Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk? I thought you didn’t like tea.” “I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.” Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale-green cup. “If you don’t like it, why on earth do you . . . ?” Mangane smiled. “Because I want some tea,” he said. Inez looked at him for a moment, the shadow of a frown flickering across her face. Then, with a shrug: “Distinction’s a bit too subtle for me. Anyhow, help yourself. Is father being kind to you?” “He’s being wonderfully patient. It must be infernally trying to a busy man to have to explain what he’s talking about.” “But you’ve had financial training, haven’t you? Father said you’d been with Sir John Kinnick. I thought you probably knew all about it.” “I thought so too; it’s been a thoroughly healthy and humiliating experience for me to realize that I don’t. Your father’s in a class by himself, so far as my experience has taken me up to now. He sees things from an entirely different point of view—a sort of financial fourth dimension.” Appreciation of her father, if Mangane had known it—and perhaps he did at least guess—was the surest way to win Inez’s own approval. It was quite evident that she regarded her father with anything but the tolerant contempt which many of her contemporaries thought it amusing to adopt towards their parents. Sir Garth was a man whom it was possible, and even reasonable, to admire, even if he did happen to be one’s own father. Playing upon this easy string, Mangane had no difficulty in justifying his self-sacrifice in the matter of tea-drinking. He was even contemplating another cup when the spell was broken by the abrupt appearance of a Third Player. The door into the hall opened suddenly and a young man slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with exaggerated silence. “Ry!” exclaimed Inez. “What on earth are you trying to do?” Ryland tip-toed across the room with long strides and whispered hoarsely in his sister’s ear. “Is the Old Gentleman, your father, to house, maiden?” “No, you idiot; of course he isn’t at this time of night. He does some work.” “Cruel, fair. But, oh Lord, I breathe again. A bowl of milk or I die.”