“Hm!” Lady Amesbury grunted.  “I expect he has to stay and mind the office while Mr. White gets his lunch.”

“Considering,” Sarah rejoined with dignity, “that there are seventeen other clerks, besides office boys and typists, and Jimmy has a room to himself, that doesn’t seem likely.  I expect he’s doing a big deal for somebody or other.”

“Thank God it isn’t me!” her aunt declared.  “I love Jimmy—­every one does—­but he wasn’t born for business.”

“We shall see,” Sarah observed.  “My own opinion of Jimmy is that his mental gifts are generally underrated.”

“You’re not prejudiced, by any chance, are you?” Kendrick asked, smiling.

“That is my dispassionate opinion,” Sarah pronounced, “and I don’t want any peevish remarks from you, Roger Kendrick.  You’re jealous because you let Mr. White get in ahead of you and secure Jimmy.  It was only three days ago that we agreed he should go into the City.  He was perfectly sweet about it, too.  He was playing for the M.C.C. to-morrow, and polo at Ranelagh on Saturday.”

“Is he giving them both up?” Kendrick enquired.

“He’s giving up the cricket, of course, unless he finds that it happens to be a slack day in the City,” Sarah replied.  “As for the polo, well, no one works on Saturday afternoon, do they?”

“How is my friend, Mr. Peter Phipps?” Lady Amesbury demanded.  “The big man who looked like a professional millionaire?  Is he making a man of that bad husband of yours, Josephine?”

“They spend a good deal of time together,” Josephine replied.  “I don’t think he’ll ever succeed in making a business man out of Henry, though, any more than Mr. White will out of Jimmy.”

A familiar form approached the table.  Sarah welcomed him with a wave of her hand.  The Honourable Jimmy greeted Lady Amesbury and his host, nodded to every one else, and took the vacant place which had been left for him.  He seemed fatigued.

“Can I have a cocktail, Mr. Wingate?” he begged, summoning a waiter.  “A double Martini, please.  Big things doing in the City,” he confided.

“Have you had to work very hard, dear?” Sarah asked sympathetically.

“Absolutely feverish rush ever since I got there,” he declared.  “Don’t know how long my nerves will stand it.  Telephones ringing, men rushing out of the office without their hats, and bumping into you without saying ‘by your leave’ or ‘beg your pardon,’ or any little civility of that sort, and good old Maurice, with his hair standing up on end, shouting into two telephones at the same time, and dictating a letter to one of the peachiest little bits of fluff I’ve seen outside the front rows for I don’t know how long.”

“Jimmy,” Sarah said sternly, “I’m not sure that the City is going to suit you.  You don’t have to dictate letters to her, do you?”

“No such luck,” Jimmy sighed.  “She is the Chief’s own particular property.  Does a thousand words a minute and knits a jumper at the same time.”