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him a proper home—
    Kenmore’s just a hotel with different guests every day.  I do believe there’s only one room he feels really comfortable in, and that’s this one—with his poor little secretary slaving away while he smokes—and he shouldn’t smoke either, so he’s been told. . . .  D’you know, he often locks himself in when he wants to work, because the rest of the house is so full of Goyas and Epsteins and what not that people wander in and out of all the rooms as if it were a museum.  Of course there really are priceless things in it— why not?--he gives her the money to spend, and I suppose she has taste—that is if you LIKE a house that’s like a museum.  I sometimes wonder if Charles does.”
    After a pause during which I made no comment she turned to the writing-desk.  “Charles gets hundreds of letters from complete strangers—about one thing and another, you know.  If they’re abusive we take no notice—in fact, whatever they are, HE doesn’t bother much about them, but I’ll let you into a secret—something he doesn’t suspect and never will unless you tell him, and I’m sure you won’t—I always write a little note of thanks to anyone who sends a NICE letter . . . of course I write as if he’d dictated it. . . .  I really think a good secretary SHOULD do little things like that on her own, don’t you?”
    I said nothing.
    “Really, if he were to ask me to stay, I believe I would, marriage or no marriage—I mean, it would be so hard to refuse him anything— but then, he’s too fine and generous to ask—as soon as he knew about it he urged me not to delay my happiness on his account—just as if his own marriage had brought HIM happiness. . . .  Not that Charles would be an easy man to MAKE happy, even if he HAD got the right woman.  But he isn’t happy NOW—that I DO know—there’s always a look in his eyes as if he were searching for something and couldn’t find it.”
    For two or three days Miss Hobbs continued to show me the ropes;
    Rainier was away in Lancashire.  During this time Mrs. Rainier gave several lunch parties to which I was not invited, though I was in the house at the time and was even privileged to give assistance to a foreign plenipotentiary who spoke little English and had strayed into the study in search of a humbler apartment.  I could better understand after that why Rainier sometimes locked the door.
    Then he returned, having wired me to meet his train at Euston.  As soon as we had found a taxi and were driving out of the station he asked me how I’d been getting on, and added, without waiting for an answer:  “I don’t suppose you’ll find it hard to be as good as your predecessor.”
    I said I should certainly hope to be.
    “Then you’ve already found out a few of the things I’ve been putting up with?”
    “Yes, but not why you HAVE put up with them, for so many years.”
    “Pure sentiment, plus the fact that I’ve always had a submerged sympathy with crazy people, and Elsie’s crazy enough.  She used to work at Stourton in my father’s time, then she worked for my brother, and when he naturally wanted to get rid of her there was no one fool enough to take her but me.  I made her my social secretary—because in those days I had no social life and it didn’t matter.  But after I married there were social things for her to do and she did them with a peculiar and fascinating idiocy.  D’you know, I’ve found out she writes long letters to people I’ve never heard of and signs my name to them? . . .  And by the way, did she tell you I’m not happy with my wife?”
    “Well—er—“
    “Don’t believe it.  My wife and I are the best of friends.  I suppose she also hinted it was a marriage of convenience?”
    I felt this was incriminating Miss Hobbs too much and was beginning a non-committal answer when he interrupted:  “Well, THAT happens to be true.  I married her because it seemed to me she’d be just the