“Dear Mr. Secretary,” it ran, “it is twenty-two years since I took a red-headed New York boy down Bright Angel trail.  You and I have never heard from each other since, but, naturally I have followed your career with interest.  And now I’m going to ask a favor of you.  My daughter Diana wants a job in the Indian Bureau and she’s coming to Washington to see you.  Don’t give her a job!  She doesn’t have to work.  I can take care of her.  I’m an old man and selfish and I don’t like to be deprived of my daughter for my few remaining years.

“With heart-felt congratulations on your great career,

“I am yours most respectfully,

“Frank Allen.”

Enoch drew a deep breath and took up his fountain pen.  He signed with a rapid, illegible scrawl that toward the end of the pile became a mere hieroglyphic.  Jonas put his black face in at the door just as he finished the last.

“Coming, Jonas!” said the Secretary.  “By the way, Abbott, I’ll answer that letter from Frank Allen the first thing in the morning.  Good night, old man!  Rather a lighter day than yesterday, eh?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Secretary!” agreed Abbott, as Enoch picked up his hat and went hastily out the door Jonas held open for him.

It was seven twenty when Enoch reached home.  His house was small, with a lawn about the size of a saucer in front, and a back yard entirely monopolized by a tiny magnolia tree.  Enoch rented the house furnished and it was full of the home atmosphere created by the former diplomat’s wife from whom he leased it.  Jonas was his steward and his valet.  While other servants came and went, Jonas was there forever.  He followed Enoch upstairs and turned on the bath water, then hurried to lay out evening clothes.  During the entire process of dressing the two men did not exchange a word but Jonas heaved a sigh of satisfaction when at ten minutes before eight he opened the hall door.  Enoch smiled, patted him on the shoulders and ran down the stairs.

A dinner at the British Ambassador’s was always exceedingly formal as to food and service, exceedingly informal as to conversation.  Enoch took in a woman novelist, a woman a little past middle age who was very small and very famous.

“Well,” she said, as she pulled off her gloves, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

“I’m not difficult to meet,” returned Enoch, with a smile.

“As to that I’ve had no personal experience but three; several friends of mine have been trampled upon by your secretary.  They all were women, of course.”

“Why, of course?” demanded Enoch.

“One of the qualities that is said to make you so attractive to my sex is that you are a woman hater.  Now just why do you hate us?”

“I don’t hate women.”  Enoch spoke with simple sincerity.  “I’m afraid of them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I really know.  Do you like men?”