nce.

"No, no, dear, don't worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and
I feel sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie--that
name, I thought you had invented it!"

Marjorie flushed. "It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner's: she was
a great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just
as sweet and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for
one I--I just thought of it, Hugh. It hasn't done any harm, has it?"

"I hope not, only, don't you see, you've made me claim an existing young
lady as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other--"

"But she won't! When she left school she went out to Australia to join
her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to
England."

Hugh drew a sigh of relief. "That's all right then! It's all right,
little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter
for you now."

"Thanks to you, Hugh!"

"You know there is nothing in this world--" He looked down at the lovely
face, alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the
"might-have-been" would never be, but he knew that there was peace in
that little breast at last.

CHAPTER III

JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST

Mr. Philip Slotman touched the electric buzzer on his desk and then
watched the door. He was an unpleasant--looking man, strangely corpulent
as to body, considering his face was cast in lean and narrow mould, the
nose large, prominent and hooked, the lips full, fleshy, and of
cherry--like redness, the eyes small, mean, close together and deep set.
The over--corpulent body was attired lavishly. It was dressed in a fancy
waistcoat, a morning coat, elegantly striped trousers of lavender hue
and small pointed--toed, patent--leather boots, with bright tan uppers.
The rich aroma of an expensive cigar hung about the atmosphere of Mr.
Slotman's office. This and his clothes, and the large diamond ring that
twinkled on his finger, proclaimed him a person of opulence.

The door opened and a girl came in; she carried a notebook and her head
very high. She trod like a young queen, and in spite of the poor black
serge dress she wore, there was much of regal dignity about her. Dark
brown hair that waved back from a broad and low forehead, a pair of
lustrous eyes filled now with contempt and aversion, eyes shielded by
lashes that, when she slept, lay like a silken fringe upon her cheeks.
Her nose was redeemed from the pur