Mr. Quincunx’s nostrils dilated, and his drooping moustache quivered. A smile of delicious and sardonic humour wavered over the lower portion of his face, while his grey eyes lost their sadness and gleamed with a goblin-like merriment. “I am getting quite popular at the office,” he said. “I have learnt the secret of it now.” “And what is the secret?” asked Lacrima, suppressing a queer little gasp in her throat. “Sucking up,” Mr. Quincunx answered, his face flickering with subterranean amusement, “sucking up to everyone in the place, from the manager to the office boy.” Lacrima returned to him a very wan little smile. “I suppose you mean ingratiating yourself,” she said; “you English have such funny expressions.” “Yes, ingratiating myself, pandering to them, flattering them, agreeing with them, anticipating their wishes, doing their work for them, telling lies for them, abusing God to make them laugh, introducing them to Guy de Maupassant, and even making a few light references, now and again, to what Shakespeare calls ‘country-matters.’” “I don’t believe a word you say,” protested Lacrima in rather a quavering voice. “I believe you hate them all and that they are all unkind to you. But I can quite imagine you have to do more work than your own.” Mr. Quincunx’s countenance lost its merriment instantaneously. “I believe you are as annoyed as Mr. Romer,” he said, “that I should get on in the office. But I am past being affected by that. I know what human nature is! We are all really pleased when other people get on badly, and are sorry when they do well.” Lacrima felt as though the trees in the field opposite had suddenly reversed themselves and were waving their roots in the air. She gave a little shiver and pressed her hand to her side. Mr. Quincunx continued. “Of course you don’t like it when I tell you the truth. Nobody likes to hear the truth. Human beings lap up lies as pigs lap up milk. And women are worst of all in that! No woman really can love a person--not, at any rate, for long--who tells her the truth! That is why women love clergymen, because clergymen are brought up to lie. I saw you laughing and amusing yourself the other evening with Mr. Clavering--you and your friend Gladys. I went the other way, so as not to interrupt such a merry conversation.” Lacrima turned upon him at this. “I cannot understand how you can say such things of me!” she cried. “It is too much. I won’t--I won’t listen to it!” Her over-strained nerves broke down at last, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a fit of convulsive sobs. Mr. Quincunx rose and stood gazing at her, gloomily plucking at his beard. “And such are women!” he thought to himself. “One can never tell them the least truth but they burst into tears.”