As he entered, the new secretary was returning a volume to its place on the book-shelves. At sight of him, he pushed it hastily into position and turned round.
“I was making a few notes on the political position of Khorasan,” he said, glancing with slight apprehensiveness at the other's face. He was a small, shy man, with few social attainments but an extraordinary amount of learning—the antithesis of the alert Blessington, whom he had replaced.
Loder bore his scrutiny without flinching. Indeed, it struck him suddenly that there was a fund of interest, almost of excitement, in the encountering of each new pair of eyes. At the thought he moved forward to the desk.
“Thank you, Greening,” he said. “A very useful bit of work.”
The secretary glanced up, slightly puzzled. His endurance had been severely taxed in the fourteen days that he had filled his new post.
“I'm glad you think so, sir,” he said, hesitatingly. “You rather pooh-poohed the matter this morning, if you remember.”
Loder was taking off his coat, but stopped in the operation.
“This morning?” he said. “Oh, did I? Did I?” Then, struck by the opportunity the words gave him, he turned towards the secretary. “You've got to get used to me, Greening,” he said. “You haven't quite grasped me yet, I can see. I'm a man of moods, you know. Up to the present you've seen my slack side, my jarred side, but I have quite another when I care to show it. I'm a sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde affair.” Again he laughed, and Greening echoed the sound diffidently. Chilcote had evidently discouraged familiarity.
Loder eyed him with abrupt understanding. He recognized the loneliness in the anxious, conciliatory manner.
“You're tired,” he said, kindly. “Go to bed. I've got some thinking to do. Good-night.” He held out his hand.