m her recent anxiety. She wasn't pleased with Jack, the
boot-boy; decidedly she was not pleased. She had not been since his
return from his summer's work, for he had not improved either in
industry or behavior. She had not liked the strange interest which
Gwendolyn had taken in his slight gift for drawing, which that
enthusiastic young artist called "remarkable," but which this more
experienced instructor knew would never amount to anything.

Yet that was a matter which could wait. Meanwhile, here was a broken
day, with everybody still so excited that lessons would be merely
wasted effort; so, after she had sent Dorothy to put on her ordinary
school dress, she informed the various classes that no more work was
required that day and that after lunch there would be half-holiday for
all her pupils.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Dolly and may she soon get lost
again!" shouted Winifred, and, for once, was not rebuked because of
unladylike manners.

Left to himself, Jack regarded his beloved Baal, in keen distress.

"Said you'd got to go, did she? Well, if you go I do, too. Anyhow I'm
sick to death of cleaning nasty girls', or nasty shoes o' a lot o'
girls--ary way you put it. Boot-boy, Baal! Think o' that. If that
ain't a re--restrick-erated life for a artist, like Miss Gwen says I
am; or uther a dectective gentleman--I'd like to know. No, sir, Baal!
We'll quit an' we'll do it to once. Maybe they won't feel sorry when
they find me gone an' my place empty to the table! Maybe them girls
that laughed when that old schoolmarm was a pitchin' into me afore all
them giggling creatures, maybe they won't feel bad, a-lookin' at that
hull row of shoes outside cubicle doors waiting to be cleaned and not
one touched toward it! Huh! It'll do all them 'ristocratics good to
have to clean 'em themselves. All but Miss Gwendolyn. She's the
likeliest one of the hull three hundred. I hate--I kinder hate to
leave her. 'Artists has kindred souls,' she said once when she was
showin' me how to draw that skull. Who can tell? I might get to be
more famouser'n her, smart as she is; an' I might grow up, and her
too, and I might come to her house--or is it a turreted castle?--an' I
might take my fa--famousness an' offer it to her to marry me! And
then, when her folks couldn't hardly believe that I was I, and her old
boot-boy, maybe they'd say 'Yes, take her, my son! I'm proud to
welcome into our 'ristocraticy one that has riz from a boot-boy to