"I should be very glad."

"Well, then, we each of us wear a chip on our shoulder, simply because

we've never taken the trouble to know each other well. Most English we

Americans meet are stupid and caddish and uninteresting; and most of

the Americans you see are boastful, loud-talking and money-mad. Our

mutual impressions are wholly wrong to begin with."

"I have no chip on my shoulder," Thomas refuted eagerly.

"Neither have I."

"But I have," laughed her father. "I eat Englishmen for breakfast;

fe-fo-fum style."

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How democratic indeed these kindly, unpretentious people were! thought

Thomas. A multimillionaire as amiable as a clerk; a daughter who would

have graced any court in Europe with her charm and elfin beauty. Up to

a month ago he had held all Americans in tolerant contempt.

It was as Kitty said: the real Englishman and the real American seldom

met.

He did not realize as yet that his position in this house was unique.

In England all great merchants and statesmen and nobles had one or more

private secretaries about. He believed it to be a matter of course

that Americans followed the same custom. He would have been

wonderfully astonished to learn that in all this mighty throbbing city

of millions--people and money--there might be less than a baker's dozen

who occupied simultaneously the positions of private secretary and

friend of the family. Mr. Killigrew had his private secretary, but

this gentleman rarely saw the inside of the Killigrew home; it wasn't

at all necessary that he should. Killigrew was a sensible man; his

business hours began when he left home and ended when he entered it.

"Do you know any earls or dukes?" asked Killigrew, folding his napkin.

"Really, no. I have moved in a very different orbit. I know many of

them by sight, however." He did not think it vital to add that he had

often sold them collars and suspenders.

The butler and the second man pulled back the ladies' chairs.

Killigrew hurried away to his offices; Kitty and her mother went

up-stairs; and Thomas returned to his desk in the library. He was

being watched by Kitty; nothing overt, nothing tangible, yet he sensed

it: from the first day he had entered this house. It oppressed him,

like a presage of disaster. Back of his chair was a fireplace, above

this, a mirror. Once--it was but yesterday--while with his back to his

desk, day-dreaming, he had seen her in the mirror. She stood in the

doorway, a hand resting lightly against the portiere. There was no

smile on her face. The moment he stirred, she vanished.




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