He’s rather sacrificed

his career for me, I fancy. He’s got high aims. Poor little Minks!’

‘I’ll stand by him whatever happens,’ was the thought the slamming

of the blue door interrupted. ‘To be secretary to such a man is

already success.’ And again he hugged his secret and himself.

As already said, the new-fledged secretary was married and wrote

poetry on the sly. He had four children. He would make an ideal

helpmate, worshipping his employer with that rare quality of being

interested in his ideas and aims beyond the mere earning of a salary;

seeing, too, in that employer more than he, the latter, supposed. For,

while he wrote verses on the sly, ‘my chief,’ as he now preferred to

call him, lived poetry in his life.

‘He’s got it, you know, my dear,’ he announced to his wife, as he

kissed her and arranged his tie in the gilt mirror over the plush

mantelpiece in the ‘parlour’; ‘he’s got the divine thing in him right

enough; got it, too, as strong as hunger or any other natural

instinct. It’s almost functional with him, if I may say so’—which

meant ‘if you can understand me’—’only, he’s deliberately smothered

it all these years. He thinks it wouldn’t go down with other business

men. And he’s been in business, you see, from the word go. He meant to

make money, and he couldn’t do both exactly. Just like myself—-‘

Minks wandered on. His wife noticed the new enthusiasm in his

manner, and was puzzled by it. Something was up, she divined.

‘Do you think he’ll raise your salary again soon?’ she asked

practically, helping him draw off the paper cuffs that protected his

shirt from ink stains, and throwing them in the fire. ‘That seems to

be the real point.’

But Herbert evaded the immediate issue. It was so delightful to

watch her and keep his secret a little longer.

‘And you do deserve success, dear,’ she added; ‘you’ve been

as faithful as a horse.’ She came closer, and stroked his thick, light

hair a moment.

He turned quickly. Had he betrayed himself already? Had she read it

from his eyes or manner?

‘That’s nothing,’ he answered lightly. ‘Duty is duty.’

‘Of course, dear,’ and she brought him his slippers. He would not

let her put them on for him. It was not gallant to permit menial

services to a woman.

‘Success,’ he murmured, ‘that poisons many a baser mind—-‘ and

then stopped short. ‘I’ve got a new sonnet,’ he told her quickly,

determined to prolong his pleasure, ‘got it in the train coming home.

Wait a moment, and I’ll give you the rest. It’s a beauty, with real

passion in it, only I want to keep it cold and splendid if I can.

Don’t interrupt a moment.’ He put the slippers on the wrong feet and

stared hard into the fire.