e service. Another time, as he
was descending in the elevator, a door opposite the shaft, on the
second floor, stood open, and he caught a glimpse of the apartment to
which it gave access. The room was finished in soft tints, and was full
of upholstery and hangings that lent it a dim golden atmosphere. In the
middle of it stood the young girl, clad in the palest blue, above which
her hair shone like a golden cloud on some dim evening sky.

Slight occurrences of this sort had affected him. He learned that she
was the daughter of Littimer, the rich, widowed banker: her name was
Blanche.

II

In these new, stout shoes that did not belong to him Crombie trod with
a buoyancy and assurance strongly in contrast with the limp and
half-hearted pace to which his old, shabby gaiters had formerly
inclined him. He rattled down the stairs of the elevated station with
an alacrity almost bumptious; and the sharp, confident step that
announced his entrance into the company's office made the other clerks
quite ashamed of their own want of spirit.

He worked at his desk until noon; but when the bells of Trinity rang
twelve in solemn music over the busy streets, he dropped his pen,
walked with a decisive air the length of the room, and, opening a door
at the other end, presented himself before Mr. Blatchford, the
treasurer, who was also an influential director. "Crombie, eh? Well,
what is it?"

"I want to speak with you a moment, sir."

"Anything important? I'm busy."

"Yes, sir; quite important--to me. Possibly it may be to you."

"Fire away, then; but cut it short." Mr. Blatchford's dense,
well-combed gray side-whiskers were directed toward the young man in an
aggressive way, as if they had been some sort of weapon.

Crombie nonchalantly settled himself in a chair, at ease.

"I am tired of being a clerk," he said. "I'm going to be a director in
this company."

"I guess you're going to be an inmate of a lunatic asylum," Mr.
Blatchford remarked with astonished cheerfulness.

"That seems as unlikely to me as the other thing does to you," said
Crombie.

Hereupon Mr. Blatchford became sarcastically deferential. "And just
about when do you propose to become a director?" he asked.

"In the course of a month. The election, I believe, takes place in
December."

"Quite right," said his senior, whose urbanity was meant to be
crushing. "Meanwhile, you will need leisure to attend to this little
matter. Suppose I oblige you by say