back as she stood at the mantelpiece
making her entries, counting the money in her bag. When she moved to
the door he got up and intercepted her.

"You are Miss Browne while you are in the--er--shop, I understand?" he
said. "I don't care for her--for Miss--er--Browne. It is the girl I met
at the dance I care for, and want to see again. I can't find her here.
Can I--er--find her outside? If I wait at the door for an hour, say,
will you--will she be there?"

Lucilla drew back, with hurt eyes and a reddening face. As if she were
any Miss Dawson, with the pavement for a rendezvous!

"I can't possibly say where you may meet your friends," she told him.
"I, for my part, do not make appointments to meet men who are strangers
to me--in the streets."

She passed him then, and went downstairs, her head held high, although
her heart was sore. She watched, hidden in the shop, for his departure.
It seemed to her impatience a long time before he left.

Miss Dawson was warbling to herself, with rather shrill-throated
gaiety, whisking her full skirt among the bamboo tables, when Lucilla
returned to the tea-room.

"I like your friend, miss," she said. "He hung about for a good time,
waiting for you; but as you didn't choose to come back he's gone."

Lucilla had come in with her arms full of great, bronze-coloured
chrysanthemums, which had been sent in from the flower shop to deck the
tables for the morrow. In silence she went about the work of
replenishing the vases. Miss Dawson quavered some high notes of her
song.

"Did he say that he wanted to see me again?" Lucilla, in spite of
herself, was obliged to ask.

"Dear me, no, miss. He said he stayed to thank me for wearing his
flowers."

Lucilla viciously snapped off the stalk of a giant chrysanthemum. The
Princess violets in the other girl's bosom had been as thorns in her
own, all the day. She glanced at the mantelpiece where she had seen him
toss the book of plays.

"You've got his book as well, I suppose?" she asked.

Miss Dawson gave her high laugh. "Oh yes!" she acknowledged. "I know
it's your leavings; I'm not proud."

She sang in her florid style for a minute or two, then descended to
speech again.

"You wouldn't let your friend wait for you outside, miss," she said.
"You're so mighty particular. I ain't. I told him I had no one to walk
home with me to-night; so he's waiting for me."

Captain Finch brought his erect, handsome form, his kind, foolish face
no m