“No one can say,” Hemmings resumed soothingly, “that we have not dealt liberally.” Pippin made a motion of the head. “We think we have a good superintendent; I go further, an excellent superintendent. What I say is: Let's be pleasant! I am not making an unreasonable request!” He ended on a fitting note of jocularity; and, as if by consent, all three withdrew, each to his own room, without another word. In the course of the next day Pippin said to Scorrier: “It seems I have been very wicked. I must try to do better”; and with a touch of bitter humour, “They are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, you see! After that I must try hard.” Scorrier broke in: “No man could have done so much for them;” and, carried away by an impulse to put things absolutely straight, went on “But, after all, a letter now and then—what does it amount to?” Pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. “You too?” he said—“I must indeed have been a wicked man!” and turned away. Scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for Pippin, angry with himself; angry with Pippin, sorry for himself. He earnestly desired to see the back of Hemmings. The secretary gratified the wish a few days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions of regard and the assurance of his goodwill. Pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteous silence, making only one allusion to his late guest, in answer to a remark of Scorrier: “Ah! don't tempt me! mustn't speak behind his back.” VI A month passed, and Scorrier still—remained Pippin's guest. As each mail-day approached he experienced a queer suppressed excitement. On one of these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when Scorrier went to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on his hands, amid a perfect fitter of torn paper. He looked up at Scorrier. “I can't do it,” he said, “I feel such a hypocrite; I can't put myself into leading-strings again. Why should I ask these people, when I've settled everything already? If it were a vital matter they wouldn't want to hear—they'd simply wire, 'Manage this somehow!'” Scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'This is a mad business!' What was a letter? Why make a fuss about a letter? The approach of mail-day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he became feverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail had gone, behaved like a respited criminal. And this had been going on two years! Ever since that explosion. Why, it was monomania! One day, a month after Hemmings' departure, Pippin rose early from dinner; his face was flushed, he had been drinking wine. “I won't be beaten this time,” he said, as he passed Scorrier. The latter could hear him writing in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he was going for a walk. Pippin gave him a kindly nod.