"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: