To revert to Kelson.  From the hour he had first seen Lilian Rosenberg he had become more and more deeply enamoured.  In the hope of meeting her, he had hung about the halls and passages of the building; had never missed an opportunity of speaking to her, of feasting himself on the elfish beauty of her face, of squeezing her hand, and of telling her how much he admired her.

“You really mustn’t,” she said.  “Mr. Hamar has given me strict orders to attend to nothing but my work.”

“Oh, damn Hamar!” Kelson replied, “if I choose to talk to you it’s no business of his.  You’ve not treated me well.  I got you the post, and it is I you should go out with, not Hamar.”

And in the quiet nooks and corners, perched on the window-sill, with one eye kept warily on the guard for fear of interruptions, he told her his history—­all about himself from the day of his birth—­told her about his parents, his childhood, his schooldays, his hobbies and cranks, his indiscretions, extravagancies, his carousals, debts, flirtations, with just an excusable amount of exaggeration.  He even went so far as to speak of a chronic rheumatism, of a twinge of hereditary gout, and of a slightly hectic cough with which, he suddenly remembered, he had at one time, been troubled.

“Don’t you think,” Lilian Rosenberg said, with mock earnestness, “you are somewhat rash!  Have you forgotten that no woman can keep a secret—­and you are not telling me one secret but many.  Supposing in a fit of thoughtlessness or absent-mindedness, I were to divulge them!  I should never forgive myself.”

“Would it distress you so much?”

“Of course it would.  I should be miserable,” she laughed.  And Kelson, unable to restrain himself, seized her hands and smothered them with kisses.

“Your fingers would look well covered with rings,” he said.  “I will give you some, and you shall come with me and choose.  Only on no account tell Hamar.”  And he kissed her—­not on the hands this time—­but the lips.

Hamar saw him.  He watched him from behind the angle of the passage wall, but he said nothing—­at least, nothing to Kelson.  It was to Lilian Rosenberg he spoke.

“It is really not my fault,” she said.  “I don’t encourage him, and if you take my advice, you will not interfere, for I am sure at present he means nothing serious.  He is the sort of man who imagines himself in love with every one he meets.  If you prevent him seeing me, you may actually bring about the result you are most anxious to avoid.”

“I’ll risk that,” Hamar said, “and I absolutely forbid you doing more than merely saying good morning to him.  It is either that, or you must go.”

“Well, of course I will do as you wish,” Lilian said.  “I don’t care a snap for him; and, after all, you ought to know your own business best!  It is only natural that you should want him to marry some one who can bring money into the Firm.”