“This morning?” he said.  “Oh, did I?  Did I?” Then, struck by the opportunity the words gave him, he turned towards the secretary.  “You’ve got to get used to me, Greening,” he said.  “You haven’t quite grasped me yet, I can see.  I’m a man of moods, you know.  Up to the present you’ve seen my slack side, my jarred side, but I have quite another when I care to show it.  I’m a sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde affair.”  Again he laughed, and Greening echoed the sound diffidently.  Chilcote had evidently discouraged familiarity.

Loder eyed him with abrupt understanding.  He recognized the loneliness in the anxious, conciliatory manner.

“You’re tired,” he said, kindly.  “Go to bed.  I’ve got some thinking to do.  Good-night.”  He held out his hand.

Greening took it, still half distrustful of this fresh side to so complex a man.

“Good-night, sir,” he said.  “To-morrow, if you approve, I shall go on with my notes.  I hope you will have a restful night.”

For a second Loder’s eyebrows went up, but he recovered himself instantly.

“Ah, thanks, Greening,” he said.  “Thanks.  I think your hope will be fulfilled.”

He watched the little secretary move softly and apologetically to the door; then he walked to the fire, and, resting his elbows on the mantel-piece, he took his face in his hands.

For a space he stood absolutely quiet, then his hands dropped to his sides and he turned slowly round.  In that short space he had balanced things and found his bearings.  The slight nervousness shown in his brusque sentences and overconfident manner faded out, and he faced facts steadily.

With the return of his calmness he took a long survey of the room.  His glance brightened appreciatively as it travelled from the walls lined with well-bound books to the lamps modulated to the proper light; from the lamps to the desk fitted with every requirement.  Nothing was lacking.  All he had once possessed, all he had since dreamed of, was here, but on a greater scale.  To enjoy the luxuries of life a man must go long without them.  Loder had lived severely—­so severely that until three weeks ago he had believed bimself exempt from the temptations of humanity.  Then the voice of the world had spoken, and within him another voice had answered, with a tone so clamorous and insistent that it had outcried his surprised and incredulous wonder at its existence and its claims.  That had been the voice of suppressed ambition; and now as he stood in the new atmosphere a newer voice lifted itself.  The joy of material things rose suddenly, overbalancing the last remnant of the philosophy he had reared.  He saw all things in a fresh light—­the soft carpets, the soft lights, the numberless pleasant, unnecessary things that color the passing landscape and oil the wheels of life.  This was power—­power made manifest.  The choice bindings of one’s books, the quiet harmony of one’s surroundings, the gratifying deference of one’s dependants—­these were the visible, the outward signs, the things he had forgotten.