brickbat whenever the occasion arrived. There was a barmaid or two at
the pub where he lunched at noon; but chaff was the alpha and omega of
this acquaintance. Thus, Thomas knew little or nothing of the sex.

The women with whom he conversed, played the gallant, the hero, the
lover (we none of us fancy ourselves as rogues!) were those who peopled
his waking dreams. She was La Belle Isoude, Elaine, Beatrice,
Constance; it all depended upon what book he had previously been
reading. It is when we men are confronted with the living picture of
some one of our dreams of them that women cease to dwell in the
abstract and become issues, to be met with more or less trepidation.
Back among some of his idle dreams there had been a Kitty, blue-eyed,
black-haired, slender and elfish.

Kitty sat down in her chair. "Well," she said, "I have found him."

"Found whom?" asked Mrs. Crawford.

"The private secretary."

"What?" Killigrew swung his feet to the deck. "What the dickens have
you been doing now? Who is it?"

"Webb."

"The steward?"

"Yes."

"Well, if that . . ." began Killigrew belligerently.