some of his business to handle. He started
with nothing, too, according to all accounts. Now, that's what I call
success."

"Oh, yes, in a business way he's a success," Hazel responded. "But
he's awfully curt most of the time around the office. I wonder what
made him thaw out so to-day?"

And that question recurred to her mind again in the evening, when Jack
had gone home and she was sitting in her own room. She wheeled her
chair around and took a steady look at herself in the mirror. A woman
may never admit extreme plainness of feature, and she may deprecate her
own fairness, if she be possessed of fairness, but she seldom has any
illusions about one or the other. She knows. Hazel Weir knew that she
was far above the average in point of looks. If she had never taken
stock of herself before, the reflection facing her now was sufficient
to leave no room for doubt on the score of beauty. Her skin was
smooth, delicate in texture, and as delicately tinted. The tan pongee
dress she wore set off her dark hair and expressive, bluish-gray eyes.

She was smiling at herself just as she had been smiling at Jack Barrow
while they sat on the log and fed the swans. And she made an amiable
grin at the reflection in the glass. But even though Miss Weir was
twenty-two and far from unsophisticated, it did not strike her that the
transition of herself from a demure, business-like office person in
sober black and white to a radiant creature with the potent influences
of love and spring brightening her eyes and lending a veiled caress to
her every supple movement, satisfactorily accounted for the sudden
friendliness of Mr. Andrew Bush.

CHAPTER II

HEART, HAND--AND POCKETBOOK

Miss Weir was unprepared for what subsequently transpired as a result
of that casual encounter with the managing partner of the firm. By the
time she went to work on Monday morning she had almost forgotten the
meeting in Granville Park. And she was only reminded of it when, at
nine o'clock, Mr. Andrew Bush walked through the office, greeting the
force with his usual curt nod and inclusive "good morning" before he
disappeared behind the ground-glass door lettered "Private." With the
weekday he had apparently resumed his business manner.

Hazel's work consisted largely of dictation from the shipping manager,
letters relating to outgoing consignments of implements. She was rapid
and efficient, and, having reached the zenith of salary paid