At eleven Mr Butterwell came into Crosbie’s room, and the new secretary was forced to clothe himself in smiles.  Mr Butterwell was a pleasant, handsome man of about fifty, who had never yet set the Thames on fire, and had never attempted to do so.  He was perhaps a little more civil to great men and a little more patronising to those below him than he would have been had he been perfect.  But there was something frank and English even in his mode of bowing before the mighty ones, and to those who were not mighty he was rather too civil than either stern or supercilious.  He knew that he was not very clever, but he knew also how to use those who were clever.  He seldom made any mistake, and was very scrupulous not to tread on men’s corns.  Though he had no enemies, yet he had a friend or two; and we may therefore say of Mr Butterwell that he had walked his path in life discreetly.  At the age of thirty-five he had married a lady with some little fortune, and now he lived a pleasant, easy, smiling life in a villa at Putney.  When Mr Butterwell heard, as he often did hear, of the difficulty which an English gentleman has of earning his bread in his own country, he was wont to look back on his own career with some complacency.  He knew that he had not given the world much; yet he had received largely, and no one had begrudged it to him.  “Tact,” Mr Butterwell used to say to himself, as he walked along the paths of his Putney villa.  “Tact.  Tact.  Tact.”

“Crosbie,” he said, as he entered the room cheerily, “I congratulate you with all my heart.  I do, indeed.  You have got the step early in life, and you deserve it thoroughly;—­much better than I did when I was appointed to the same office.”

“Oh, no,” said Crosbie, gloomily.

“But I say, oh, yes.  We are deuced lucky to have such a man, and so I told the commissioners.”

“I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you.”

“I’ve known it all along,—­before you left even.  Sir Raffle Buffle had told me he was to go to the Income-tax Office.  The chair is two thousand there, you know; and I had been promised the first seat at the Board.”

“Ah;—­I wish I’d known,” said Crosbie.

“You are much better as you are,” said Butterwell.  “There’s no pleasure like a surprise!  Besides, one knows a thing of that kind, and yet doesn’t know it.  I don’t mind saying now that I knew it,—­swearing that I knew it,—­but I wouldn’t have said so to a living being the day before yesterday.  There are such slips between the cups and the lips.  Suppose Sir Raffle had not gone to the Income-tax!”

“Exactly so,” said Crosbie.

“But it’s all right now.  Indeed I sat at the Board yesterday, though I signed the letter afterwards.  I’m not sure that I don’t lose more than I gain.”

“What! with three hundred a year more and less work?”

“Ah, but look at the interest of the thing.  The secretary sees everything and knows everything.  But I’m getting old, and, as you say, the lighter work will suit me.  By-the-by, will you come down to Putney to-morrow?  Mrs Butterwell will be delighted to see the new secretary.  There’s nobody in town now, so you can have no ground for refusing.”