It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Only an undermaid I was then. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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