s trying in the same line,
and I have to admit to myself that I do put something into my
renditions of our poets and humorists that they fail to convey.
Furthermore--"

"I don't want to miss the Henry the Eighth dances."

"Mention of him leads up to what I want to see you about. If I go on
the stage--and to tell you the truth, I haven't completely made up my
mind as yet--I shall want a certain amount of comfort at home. A
professional man can't be bothered about domestic affairs. He has to
keep his mind on his work."

"Where does Henry the Eighth come in?"

Bulpert takes her arm. "I had an idea of asking you, Gertie, to marry
me."

A pause of nearly half a minute.

"Do you mind if I think it over before giving a definite answer?"

"I'm agreeable to that," he says, "providing you don't take too
thundering long about it."

Thus, a new perplexity was added to those that Gertie Higham already
bore upon her shoulders. There existed arguments in favour of
accepting Bulpert's offer. He belonged to her own set; he was not in a
position to comment upon her manner of speech, and there would be the
satisfaction of knowing that she was in all respects his equal; in many
his superior. Bulpert was perhaps a trifle pompous, more than a trifle
conceited, but he was steady. If she married him, it would be a
distinct score to arrange that it occurred ere Henry Douglass and Miss
Loriner became united; were Gertie to send a small white box containing
sugared cake after, the newspapers announced this fashionable wedding,
the effect of the gift would be marred.

"I want to serve him out," she argued to herself, "for the way he
treated me. It's only fair!"

Mrs. Mills was obviously delighted by the visits of Bulpert, and her
ingenuity in leaving the young people together in the shop parlour
proved that she was a mistress in the art of strategy. Bulpert excused
himself to Gertie for omitting to invite her to the play, or for other
outings, on the grounds that he was saving money; but he sometimes took
her along to Paddington Station to see the night expresses start, and
twice they went together to a large open place of entertainment in
Edgware Road where you could, by dropping a penny in the slot, inspect
a series of pictures that proved less exciting than the exhibited
title; at the same expense you heard Miss Milly Manton's latest song,
and George Limpsey's celebrated triumph in, "I wish I didn't talk so
much to Clara