MISS MAT FIELD'S NEW YEAR 397

"No, of course not Don't be ridiculous. I believe
you're suffering from a complex, Morrison. Why should
he?"

"Oh, I don't know. He sounds vaguely like it to me.
I don't mean he sounded like those awful creatures with
waxed moustaches that I worked for—not a bit. Quite
a different type. But still—however, I'll say no more.
Did you say he was away, this mystery man? When is
he coming back? Quite soon? All right, Matfield, you
must tell me more about this, you really must. I'm
interested for once in my young but embittered life.
You must tell me more."

* There won't be anything to tell," said Miss Matfield
casually. "I think I'll write home, think about Christ-
mas presents, have a bath, and go to bed early. Good
night, Morrison." No, of course, there wouldn't be any-
thing to tell. And if there was, it was no business of
Morrison's. (But Morrison was not a bad sort, much
better than she used to appear to be.) But then, there
wouldn't be. Absurd,

"Just read that over, please, Miss Matfield," said Mr.
Dersingham, and then listened self-consciously. "Does
that sound all right to you?" he inquired, when she had
done. "I want to send them—y'know—a jolly stiff letter.
They've asked for it, by George!"

"I think it sounds rather feeble," replied Miss
Matfield. She had no respect for Mr. Dersingham; he
was too vague, pink, and flabby; he was like too many
men she had met at home, the sort who cry "Shootingl"