he chart of Tommy's temperament, might have suggested the
advisability of seeking shelter.

"This is the editorial office of _Good Humour_, is it not?" inquired the
stranger.

"It is."

"Is the editor in?"

"The editor is out."

"The sub-editor?" suggested the stranger.

"I am the sub-editor."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. Tommy, on the contrary, lowered hers.

"Would you mind glancing through that?" The stranger drew from his
pocket a folded manuscript. "It will not take you a moment. I ought, of
course, to have sent it through the post; but I am so tired of sending
things through the post."

The stranger's manner was compounded of dignified impudence combined with
pathetic humility. His eyes both challenged and pleaded. Tommy held out
her hand for the paper and retired with it behind the protection of the
big editorial desk that, flanked on one side by a screen and on the other
by a formidable revolving bookcase, stretched fortress-like across the
narrow room. The stranger remained standing.

"Yes. It's pretty," criticised the sub-editor. "Worth printing,
perhaps, not worth paying for."

"Not merely a--a nominal sum, sufficient to distinguish it from the work
of the amateur?"

Tommy pursed her lips. "Poetry is quite a drug in the market. We can
get as much as we want of it for nothing."

"Say half a crown," suggested the stranger.

Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first time saw the
whole of him. He was clad in a threadbare, long, brown ulster--long,
that is, it would have been upon an ordinary man, but the stranger
happening to be remarkably tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short,
reaching only to his knees. Round his neck and tucked into his
waistcoat, thus completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have been
wearing or may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. His
hands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet the black frock-coat
and waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the unmistakable cut of a
first-class tailor and fitted him to perfection. His hat, which he had
rested on the desk, shone resplendent, and the handle of his silk
umbrella was an eagle's head in gold, with two small rubies for the eyes.

"You can leave it if you like," consented Tommy. "I'll speak to the
editor about it when he returns."

"You won't forget it?" urged the stranger.

"No," answered Tommy. "I shall not forget it."

Her black eyes were fixed u