“Thank you,” Norgate answered.  “I don’t smoke cigars in the morning.  I’ll have a cigarette, if I may.”

“As you will.  What do you think of us now that you have found your way here?”

“Your business seems to be genuine enough, at all events,” Norgate observed.

“Genuine?  Of course it is!” Selingman declared emphatically.  “Do you think I should be fool enough to be connected with a bogus affair?  My father and my grandfather before me were manufacturers of crockery.  I can assure you that I am a very energetic and a very successful business man.  If I have interests in greater things, those interests have developed naturally, side by side with my commercial success.  When I say that I am a German, that to me means more, much more, than if I were to declare myself a native of any other country in the world.  Sit opposite to me there.  I have a quarter of an hour to spare.  I can show you, if you will, over a thousand designs of various articles.  I can show you orders—­genuine orders, mind—­from some of your big wholesale houses, which would astonish you.  Or, if you prefer it, we can talk of affairs from another point of view.  What do you say?”

“My interest in your crockery,” Norgate announced, “is non-existent.  I have come to hear your offer.  I have decided to retire—­temporarily, at any rate—­from the Diplomatic Service.  I understand that I am in disgrace, and I resent it.  I resent having had to leave Berlin except at my own choice.  I am looking for a job in some other walk of life.”

Selingman nodded approvingly.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but it is true, then, that you are in some way dependent upon your profession?”

“I am not a pauper outside it,” Norgate replied, “but that is not the sole question.  I need work, an interest in life, something to think about.  I must either find something to do, or I shall go to Abyssinia.  I should prefer an occupation here.”

“I can help you,” Selingman said slowly, “if you are a young man of common sense.  I can put you in the way of earning, if you will, a thousand pounds a year and your travelling expenses, without interfering very much with your present mode of life.”

“Selling crockery?”

Selingman flicked the ash from the end of his cigar.  He shook his head good-naturedly.

“I am a judge of character, young man,” he declared.  “I pride myself upon that accomplishment.  I know very well that in you we have one with brains.  Nevertheless, I do not believe that you would sell my crockery.”

“It seems easy enough,” Norgate observed.

“It may seem easy,” Selingman objected, “but it is not.  You have not, I am convinced, the gifts of a salesman.  You would not reason and argue with these obstinate British shopkeepers.  No!  Your value to me would lie in other directions—­in your social position, your opportunities of meeting with a class above the commercial one in which I have made my few English friends, and in your own intelligence.”