ted, in an idiom which she had borrowed
from the Flight-Lieutenant. "To begin with, I've no gift that way. I
know I haven't; a girl can feel that in her bones. Secondly, I ain't no
training for it. I'm not one of these that imagine because it goes to
their heart to see a pore fellow with a bandage round his head, well,
they're a born nurse!"

"With your money," I told her, "you could provide that hospital with any
number of indoor maids to do the work!"

"Yes. And how'd they do it? Not as I should," maintained the
Soldier's-Orphanage-trained girl very proudly. "I know the ways o' some
o' these townified maids; haven't I watched 'em all down Laburnum Grove?
I'm going to make my 'bit' another way!"

From morn until dewy eve the girl who was once Miss Million, the
heiress, works harder than ever she worked when she was my Aunt
Anastasia's maid-of-all-work. Thursday is her afternoon off; Thursday
sees her motoring in the Park, exquisitely got up in a frock and furs
that were bought during the "shopping orgy" of the first week of her
wealth. And----

She has thought it over once again, and she has promised to marry her
aviator on his very first leave.

"Seemed to make all the difference, him being a soldier; seems to make
anybody just twice the man they was before. And him just three times,
seeing he'd no real call to go and fight, only he wanted to!" she
admitted to me, when we were all packing up to come away from the house
in Wales, where we had left the ventriloquist's wife in charge.

So that, if all's well, I shall yet have the task of attiring Miss
Nellie Million in her shimmering bridal-gown and her filmy veil for that
wedding of hers on which I had set my heart from the beginning.

Only--her bridesmaids will have to be Marmora, the Breathing Statue
Girl, and the lively little Boy-Impersonator.

Vi Vassity and I will be debarred from that function, because we're both
married women.

Yes! I am married, too!

But not to Mr. Reginald Brace.

For when he persisted, "Why are you so sure you could never care?"

I said frankly, "I hate to hurt you. But--Reginald, I don't like the way
your hair grows."

He looked at me in utter bewilderment through the darkness-made-visible
of those Welsh lamps.

He said: "But a man can't help the way his hair grows!"

"No. And a woman can't help the way she feels about it," I told him
sadly but resolutely.

He saw at last that I meant I wasn't going to take him. He went