“Mr. Webb?”

Thomas looked up.  “You are wanting me, miss?”

“If you are not too busy.”

“Really, no.  I have been reading.”  He closed the book, loose-leafed from frequent perusals.  “I am at your service.”

“Do you read much, Mr. Webb?”

The reiteration of the prefix to his name awakened him to the marvelous fact that for the present he was no longer the machine; she was recognizing the man.

“Perhaps, for a man in my station, I read too much, Miss Killigrew.”

Kitty’s scarlet lips stirred ever so slightly.  It was the first time he had added the name to the prefix:  he in his turn was recognizing the woman.  And this rather pleased her, for she liked to be recognized.

“May I ask what it is you are reading?”

He offered the book to her. Morte d’Arthur.  Kitty’s eyebrows, a hundred years or more ago, would have stirred to tender lyrics the quills of Prior and Lovelace and Suckling:  arched when interested, a funny little twist to the inner points when angered, and when laughter possessed her. . . .  Let Thomas indite the sonnet!  Just now they were widely arched.

“I am very fond of the book,” explained Thomas diffidently.  “I love the pompous gallantry of these fairy chaps.  How politely they used to hack each other into pieces!”

“Are you by chance a university man?”

“No.  I am self-educated, if one may call it that.  My father was a fellow at Trinity.  For myself, I have always had to work.”

“Do you like your present occupation?”

“It was the best I could find.”  How he would have liked to throw discretion to the winds and tell her the whole miserable story!

“Are you good at accounting?”

“Fairly.”  What was all this about?  He began to riffle the leaves of the book, restively.

“Could you tell an honest man from a dishonest one?”

“I believe so.”  Thomas had eyebrows, too, but he did not know how to use them properly.  Tell an honest man from a dishonest one, forsooth!

Kitty found the situation less easy than she had anticipated.  The more questions she asked, the more embarrassed she grew; and it angered her because there was no clear reason why she should become embarrassed.  And she also remarked his uneasiness.  However, she went on determinedly.

“Have you ever had any contact with real poverty?”

“Yes,”—­close-lipped.  “Pardon me, Miss Killigrew, but . . .”

“Just a moment, Mr. Webb,” she interrupted.  “I dare say my questions seem impertinent, but they have a purpose back of them.  My mother and I are looking for a private secretary for a charitable concern which we are going to organize shortly.  We desire some one who is educated, who will be capable of guarding us from persons not worthy of benefactions, who will make recommendations, seek into the affairs of those considered worthy.  We shall, of course, expect to find room for you.  It will not be a chatter-tea-drinking affair.  You will have the evenings to yourself and all of Sundays.  The salary will be two hundred a month.”