here this afternoon to see him. A nice man, I
thought, though I don't care for his paper. He remembered you as soon as
I mentioned your name, and told me you--you were here. He seemed quite
sorry you had left his paper; but I am sure I can understand the
attraction of a position in which the whole concern is more or less in
one's own hands. Mr. Delaney found me a copy of _The Mass_; so I have
been studying you before calling. Perhaps you have inadvertently done so
much by me, through _The Times_--a rather high and dry old institution,
isn't it?"

Naturally I had punctuated these remarks of hers, here and there. She
had a very bright, alert way in talking, and now she added, easily, a
sentence or two to the effect that it would be a dull world if we all
held precisely the same views. She did the thing well, and in a few
minutes I found myself chatting away with her in the most friendly
manner. She managed with the utmost deftness to remove all ground for my
embarrassment regarding my position. She talked for a while of South
Africa, and the life she had lived there prior to her father's death;
but she touched no topic which contained any controversial element. It
seemed her aunt, a sister of her father's, had accompanied her to
England, and she said:

"I promised my aunt, Mrs. Van Homrey, that I would induce you to spare
us an evening soon. She loves meeting friends of John Crondall. We dine
at eight, but would fix any other hour if it suited you better."

The end of it was I promised to dine with Miss Grey and her aunt in
South Kensington on the following evening, and, after a quarter of an
hour's very pleasant chat (twice interrupted by Rivers, who had people
in his cupboard waiting to see me) my visitor rose to take her
departure, with apologies for having trespassed upon a busy man's time.
I told her with some warmth that the loss of my time was of no
importance, and, with a thought as to the nature of my petty routine, I
repeated the assurance. She smiled:

"Ah, that's just the masculine insincerity of your gallantry," she said,
"unworn, I see, by working with women. John Crondall would have sent me
packing."

"No doubt his time is of more value--better occupied."

I had a mental vision of Clement Blaine (who grew stouter and slacker
day by day) sitting drinking with Herr Mitmann of Stettin, in a
favourite bar, within fifty yards of the office.

"Still the insincerity of politeness," she laughed. "You forget