this was a moment he had
long been anticipating. How different, he thought, was this life of
enigmatic gaiety from the suburban drudgery of recent months. If only
Mrs. Spaniel could see him now! He was about to utilize a brief pause by
sipping his tea, when a white-headed patriarch suddenly appeared beside
him.

"Mr. Gissing," said the vice-president, "this is my father, Mr. Beagle
senior."

Gissing, by quick work, shuffled the teacup into his left paw, and the
meringue plate into the crook of his elbow, so he was ready for the old
gentleman's salutation. Mr. Beagle senior was indeed very old: his white
hair hung over his eyes, he spoke with growling severity. Gissing's
manner to the old merchant was one of respectful reassurance: he
attempted to make an impression that would console: to impart--of course
without saying so--the thought that though the head of the firm could
not last much longer, yet he would leave his great traffic in capable
care.

"Where will I find an aluminum cooking pot?" growled the elder Beagle
unexpectedly.

"In the Bargain Basement," said Gissing promptly.

"He'll do!" cried the president.

To his surprise, on looking round, Gissing saw that all the ladies had
vanished. Beagle junior was grinning at him.

"You have the job, Mr. Gissing," he said. "You will pardon the harmless
masquerade--we always try out a floorwalker in that way. My father
thinks that if he can handle a teacup and a meringue while being
introduced to ladies, he can manage anything on the main aisle
downstairs. Mrs. Pomeranian, our millinery buyer, said she had never
seen it better done, and she mixes with some of the swellest people in
Paris."

"Nine to six, with half an hour off for lunch," said the senior partner,
and left the room.

Gissing calmly swallowed his tea, and ate the meringue. He would have
enjoyed another, but the capable secretary had already removed them. He
poured himself a second cup of tea. Mr. Beagle junior showed signs of
eagerness to leave, but Gissing detained him.

"One moment," he said suavely. "There is a little matter that we have
not discussed. The question of salary."

Mr. Beagle looked thoughtfully out of the window.

"Thirty dollars a week," he said.

After all, Gissing thought, it will only take four weeks to pay for what
I have spent on clothes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

There was some dramatic nerve in Gissing's nature that responded
eloquently to the floorwalking job. Never