He laughed, and wished her good morning rather abruptly, explaining that he was going down to the City by train. Eve had felt touched, amused, and a little puzzled. She thought what an excellent uncle he must make with the round, Christmas face, and the Tate’s sugar-box full of presents. And on Christmas morning she found a parcel from him lying on the breakfast table. He had sent her a big box of chocolates and two new novels, and had written a note. It was a rather clumsy and apologetic note, but it pleased her. “DEAR MISS CARFAX,—Please accept these trifles. I don’t know whether you will think me an impertinent old fogey, but there you are. I couldn’t send you a turkey, you know. Too large an order for one. “I wish you were spending Christmas with us. Better luck next year. “Very sincerely yours, “JOHN PARFIT.” Eve found it rather a struggle to pull through Christmas, and then, as though for a contrast, came her disagreement with Hugh Massinger. It was a serious disagreement, so serious that she took a taxi back to Bosnia Road at three in the afternoon, angry, shocked, and still flushed with scorn. She went down to Miss Champion’s next morning, and was immediately shown into Miss Champion’s private room. The lady of the white hair and the fresh face had put on the episcopal sleeves. She met Eve with an air of detached and judicial stateliness, seated herself behind her roll-top desk, and pointed Eve to a chair. “I have come to tell you that I have given up my secretaryship.” She had a feeling that Hugh Massinger had put in an early pleader, and she was not surprised when Miss Champion picked up a letter that was lying open on the desk. “This is a most deplorable incident, Miss Carfax.” Her tone challenged Eve. “It is more contemptible than deplorable!” “Mr. Massinger has written me a letter, a letter of apology and explanation. Of course, I have nothing to say in defence of such misunderstandings. But you actually struck him.” Eve’s face flamed. “Yes, you must understand——” “But I fail to understand.” “The man is a cad.” “Miss Carfax, these things don’t happen unless a woman is indiscreet. I think I insisted on your remembering that a woman must be impersonal.” Eve was amazed. She had come to Miss Champion, counting on a woman’s sympathy, and some show of decent scorn of a man who misused a situation as Hugh Massinger had done. “Miss Champion, you suggest it was my fault.” “Mr. Massinger is a man of culture. He has written, giving me an explanation. I do not say that I accept it in its entirety. But without some provocation, thoughtless provocation, perhaps——” “May I see the letter?” “Certainly not. It is confidential.” “Of course, he accuses me? It was a cowardly thing—a mean thing.” “He offers explanations.” “Which you accept?” “With certain reservations, yes.”