“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low voice. The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat and followed the other out of the room. “Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed. “Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?” “Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would you call him exactly? A private secretary?” “Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.” “Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?” Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything; the atmosphere was still a little strained. “I thought when you left the army, you had a pension.” “So you do,” Roger returned. “But pensions don’t amount to much in any case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.” “Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?” observed Alec. “Can I have another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?” “Oh, he’s all right,” Roger pronounced. “But I wouldn’t like to be out with that butler alone on a dark night.” “He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,” said Barbara with decision, manipulating the coffee-pot. “He positively frightens me at times. He looks more like a prize-fighter than a butler. What do you think, Mr. Sheringham?” “As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,” Alec put in. “He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.” “I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,” Roger murmured bloodthirstily. “There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.” “Thanks,” Alec laughed. “Not to-day, I think. He’d simply wipe the floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.” “And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let me know. I’ll put up a purse all right.” “Let’s change the subject,” said Barbara, with a little shiver. “Oh! Good-morning, Mrs. Plant. Hullo, Mother, dear! Had a good night?” Mrs. Shannon, small and fair like her daughter, was in all other respects as unlike Barbara as could well be imagined. In place of that young lady’s characterful little face, Mrs. Shannon’s features were doll-like and insipid. She was pretty enough, in a negative, plump sort of way; but interest in her began and ended with her appearance. Barbara’s attitude towards her was that of patient protectiveness. To see the two together one would think, apart from their ages, that Barbara was the mother and Mrs. Shannon the daughter.