o add, could never in any circumstances be gratified.
Urged by Gertie, on the other side, to put the desire into words,
Madame took off spectacles which she wore only when the rest of the
staff had gone, and said wistfully that if she could but get a
paragraph into the newspapers containing the name of the firm, she
thought it would be possible to die happy. Having ascertained this did
not mean that suicide would follow, Gertie sent a note to Clarence
Mills, absent since the evening of the impulsive departure from Ewelme.
No answer came, and Gertie was assuming that her cousin intended, in
this way, to prove he was not on terms of peace with her, when one of
the loom workers brought in, after lunch hour, an evening journal,
obtained by him because he required advice regarding the investment of
small sums on the prospects of racehorses.

"Here's a bit about us, miss," he said exultantly, with thumb against
the paragraph. "Here we are. Large as life, and twice as natural!"

The paragraph was found in other newspapers, and indeed it went about
Great Britain later and found its way to the Colonies. "An Oriental
Omen" it was headed, and Madame's only regret appeared to be that it
could not be held to be distinguished by the quality of absolute truth.
But there it stood in print, and there was the name of Hilbert and Co.,
the old established firm, making a speciality of manufacturing military
accoutrements, dating from the glorious year of Waterloo, and Madame's
delight proved beyond the powers of expression; her gratitude to Miss
Higham was conveyed by a kiss. One competing firm, it was discovered,
wrote a sarcastic letter to the papers that must have taken hours to
compose, throwing doubts on the accuracy of the report and inquiring
whether it was a fact that Wellington's achievement followed the
Franco-Prussian War, and this might have been inserted but for the
suggestion of self-advertisement made with something less than the
dexterity that belonged to Clarence's pen.

"I tell you what, Miss Higham," said Madame definitely. "You must come
to supper at my house the very next Sunday evening that ever is. Your
aunt won't mind for once. I'll write down the address. My proper name
is Jacks. Yes, dear, I'm married, to tell you the truth, only I don't
want it talked about here."

Frederick Bulpert, when he arrived on the Sunday evening, entered a
warm protest against what he described as this eternal gadding about.