them together, and then, and then--"

"And then," said Bill deliberately, "you'll never, with my goodwill, see
him again. So find him a wife whom you don't like, Bubbles."

She looked at him meditatively. "Very well," she said. "That will be my
first sacrifice for you, Bill. I'll save him up for Violet Purton. She's
a horrid girl--and won't she make his money fly!"

He was smiling at her rather oddly.

"Bill!" she exclaimed, startled. "Bill! I do believe you're going to be
master--"

And then she flung her arms again round his neck. "Kiss me," she
commanded, "kiss me, Bill. And then you must go away, for it isn't
proper that you should be here, at this time of the morning, now that
we're engaged!"

CHAPTER XIX

That same morning, but a good deal later, Blanche Farrow woke with a
start to find Pegler standing at her bedside with just one letter in her
hand.

Pegler was smiling. It was not a real smile, but just a general
softening of her plain, severe face.

Pegler knew that her lady had been rather "put out" at not having
received her usual Christmas letter from Mr. Mark Gifford. She had
spoken of it twice to Pegler, once lightly, on December 27, and then
again, in a rather upset way, on the 29th. After that she had pretended
to forget all about it. But Pegler felt sure Miss Farrow did
remember--often. And now here was the letter--a much fatter letter than
usual, too.

Pegler, of course, said nothing. It was not her place to know the
hand-writing of any of the gentlemen who wrote to her mistress.

Miss Farrow took the letter, and there came a faint, a very faint, flush
over her face. She said: "I hope Miss Bubbles has had a good night. Have
you been in to her yet, Pegler?"

"Yes, ma'am. She looks rather excited-like. But as you know, ma'am,
that's a good sign with her."

"Yes, I think it is, Pegler."

Pegler slipped noiselessly away, and then Blanche opened the envelope
containing Mark Gifford's long-delayed Christmas letter.

"Home Office, "_December 23rd_.

"MY DEAR BLANCHE,

"'How use doth breed a habit in a man!' Well anyhow, as you know, it
is my custom, which has now attained the dignity of a habit, always
to write you a letter for Christmas. Hitherto I have always known
where it would find you, but this year is an exception, for I really
have no idea where you are.

"This year is an exception in another respect also. Hitherto, my
dear Blanche,