"Ah, yes--yes. They are sometimes." He rang the bell. "Will you take a glass of wine before you go? Excellent port? No? Well, let me show you my flowers." He took her through his conservatory, gave her a spray of heliotrope, and escorted her to the gate. Two days later she had a letter signed by John Neville, asking her to begin her duties as Mr. Smith's under-secretary at eight o'clock on the following Monday morning. Simon Smith's charities were exclusively his own. He seldom gave to hospitals, never to missionaries, and all organized societies had learnt that they were his detestation, that though he might consider individual cases they brought to his notice, he would never spend a penny on anything in which he had not a hand. "My father," he said, "never sold a sweet he hadn't sampled. D'you think his money is going to be swallowed up while my back's turned? No, I'll look into this little affair myself." Through many different channels news came to him of people he was glad to help, and it was with his vast correspondence that Theresa chiefly had to deal while Jack Neville, alert and always beautifully dressed, went hither and thither, making investigations, and finding new subjects for Mr. Smith's generosity. "I came across a poor seedy-looking beggar this morning, down by the docks," he told Theresa one day, when she had worked there long enough to be considered part of the establishment. "I got into conversation with him, found he was a poet. He showed me some of his verses written on a dirty scrap of paper. Jolly good they are, too. Look!" She fingered the paper delicately. "Was he dirty, too?" "H'm. What you might call medium. But what do you think of his production?" "Excellent." Her lips moved with the rhythm of the words. She did not look at Neville when she spoke. "Are you going to introduce him and his verses to Mr. Smith?" "Well, what do you think?" "I think Mr. Smith probably doesn't know his poets as well as you and I do." "Ah, I wondered if you'd recognize it." She saw his growing approbation take a leap. "Rather a neat trick though, wasn't it? He must have known who I was. I shall have to adopt disguises." "You see," she said, "you are so unforgettably well-groomed." "My dear girl--I'm sorry." "Oh, never mind." "I hate familiarity." "Let's call it friendship." "May I? Thanks. I was going to say that my clothes alone lift me from the ruck. If I am not spick and span I'm nobody. It's the abominable mediocrity of my features and the shape of my head. There's much in heads."