“I’m not for it, and that’s certain,” declared the other, with an emphasis that was almost violent.  “I like Cossie right enough as a cousin, but I’m not a scrap in love.  Why, we’ve not one single taste in common—­bar tennis and walnut pickles!  I hate saying all this to you, old man—­it seems monstrously caddish, and really——­”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” interrupted Sandy; “I know Cossie and her little ways—­you are not the first by a long way that she’s tried it on with.”

“Couldn’t you drop her some sort of gentle hint?  Do, like a good chap and say a word to my aunt?  I’d stay away from ‘Monte Carlo,’ only that I’m drawn to play in this confounded tournament.”

“No good!  They wouldn’t listen to me; you must do the business yourself, Douglas, old man.  Come on, hurry up, or we’ll miss our train!” and Sandy began to run.

Shafto had not long been perched on his office stool and invested in his office coat and paper cuffs, when he received a message that Mr. Martin—­the head of the firm—­wished to see him in his private room.

“This is the limit!” he said to himself, as he followed the messenger into a cool, luxurious apartment.  “Now I’m going to get a slating—­over that French correspondence—­and it was Fraser’s job.  Well, if that’s the case, I’ll enlist; I’m sick of this life!”

He found Mr. Martin temporarily idle, seated in front of his large writing-table, scanning the Financial News.  He raised his eyes as Douglas entered, and said: 

“Hullo, that you, Shafto?  I have something to say to you.  How would you like a little promotion?”

“Very much indeed, sir,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation due to amazement.

“You’ve been over four years with us as correspondence clerk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe you know Mr. Tremenheere?”

“Yes.”

“So do I. He has called here to see me about you.  What would you think of going abroad for a change—­say, to Burma?”

“Burma—­yes, sir, all right,” assented Shafto, with a glowing face.  Something within him had always craved for the East.

“It’s like this,” continued the other, leaning back and placing his fingers together, tent fashion.  “Our house in Rangoon wants a smart, healthy, young fellow, quick at figures, and able to manage bills of lading.  You would soon pick up that; it will be chiefly an out-of-door job on the wharves.”

“I’d like that.”

“The pay offered is four hundred rupees a month, and house rent; not much, I admit, considering the fall of the rupee and Rangoon prices; but we have been compelled to modify expenses, our profits are run so fine, thanks to an active German mercantile element.  Well, what do you think, Shafto?”

Shafto thought Mr. Martin a species of genie, who was offering him a magic carpet that would transport him into the great, hurrying, active world; into the land of sunshine he had longed to see; he would have jumped at the proposal if the salary had been half, and he replied: