TWO LETTERS
Precisely as the clock struck ten, Kent-Lauriston entered the smoking-room to find it in sole possession of Stanley, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, lost in thought—a cigar, long ago gone out, hanging listlessly between his fingers.
"I'm afraid I'm late," said his genial adviser, glancing at the clock, "but I was just finishing a game of cribbage with Mr. Riddle."
"I don't envy you his society," growled the Secretary, whose temper was not improved by recent experiences.
"You misjudge him," replied Kent-Lauriston. "He's a very good fellow, in more senses of the word than one—he's just given Mr. Lambert a thumping big cheque, for the restoration of his little church."
"And made you the recipient of the fact of his generosity?"
"Far from it; our gossiping little parson did that, in direct violation of a pledge of secrecy; for Riddle never wishes his good works to be known—he's not that kind."
"I consider him a hypocrite," replied Stanley shortly.
"Then you do him a great injustice, my dear boy; and allow me to say, you'll never make a good diplomat till you've arrived at a better knowledge of human nature; it's the keystone of the profession. But, to change the subject, how have you been spending the evening?"
"Oh, making a fool of myself, as usual."