“Money bags,” was the prompt reply.  “The man thinks money, he dreams money, he lives money.  He lives like a prince but he has no pleasures.  From ten in the morning till two, he sites in his office in Lombard Street, and the pulse of the city beats differently in his absence.”

“I wonder!” the other murmured.

Other people had wondered, too.  Still the keen blue eyes looked across through the misty atmosphere at the grey building opposite.  Men and women passed before him in a constant, unseen procession.  No one came and spoke to him, no one interfered with his meditations.  The two men who had been discussing him passed out of the room presently one of them glanced backwards in his direction.

“After all, I suppose,” he observed, as he passed down the hall, “there is something great about wealth or else one wouldn’t believe that old Anselman there was thinking of his money-bags.  Why, here’s Granet.  Good fellow!  I’d no idea you’d joined this august company of old fogies.”

Granet smiled as he shook hands.

“I haven’t,” he explained.  “You have to be a millionaire, don’t you, and a great political bug, before they’d let you in?  No place for poor soldiers!  I have to be content with the Rag.”

“Poor devil!” his friend remarked sympathetically,—­“best cooking, best wines in London.  These Service men look after themselves all right.  What are you doing here, anyhow, Granet?”

“I’m dining with my uncle,” Granet replied, quickly.

“Sir Alfred’s in there, waiting for you,” his friend told him, indicating the door,—­“he has been sitting at the window watching for you, in fact.  So long!”

The two men passed out and Granet was ushered into the smoking-room.  Sir Alfred came back from his reverie and was greeted by his nephew cordially.  The two men sat by the window for a few moments in silence.

“An aperitif?” Sir Alfred suggested.  “Capital!”

They drank mixed vermouth.  Sir Alfred picked up an evening paper from his side.

“Any news?” he asked.

“Nothing fresh,” Granet replied.  “The whole worlds excited about this submarine affair.  Looks as though we’d got the measure of those Johnnies, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” Sir Alfred agreed.  “Two submarines, one after the other, two of the latest class, too, destroyed within a few miles and without a word of explanation.  No wonder every one’s excited about it!”

“They’re fearfully bucked at the Admiralty, I believe,” Granet remarked.  “Of course, they’ll pretend that they had this new dodge or whatever it may be, up their sleeves all the time.”

Sir Alfred nodded.

“Well,” he said, “come in to dinner, young fellow.  You shall entertain me with tales of your adventures whilst you compare our cuisine here with your own commissariat.”

They passed on into the strangers’ dining-room, a small but cheerful apartment opening out of the general dining-room.  The head-waiter ushered them unctuously to a small table set in the far corner of the room.