"I see you are an independent lady," said Philip, smiling. "Independent? Yes, that's me," agreed Miss Jennings. "You wouldn't take me for a Suffragette, though, would you?" she added, with a tinge of anxiety in her voice. "I don't think I have ever met one." "Well, go to one of their meetings--the Park on Sunday, or somewhere--and you won't want to meet one twice. What they're to gain by it all beats me, let alone the show they make of themselves. A woman has enough trouble coming to her in life, without going out in a procession and asking for it. That's how I look at it. Well, I'll go and type these letters." Miss Jennings's presence gradually ceased to affect Philip's powers of concentration, and he soon dropped into the habit of regarding her as she had asked to be regarded,--namely, as part of the office furniture,--though he persisted in certain small acts of consideration not usually offered to articles of upholstery. Miss Jennings, finding that her defensive attitude was entirely unnecessary, promptly set out with the perversity of her sex--or perhaps quite unconsciously--to stimulate her employer's interest in her. It was a pleasant and quite innocuous diversion, for Philip was usually far too busy to take notice of her little coquetries, and had far too much regard for the sanctity of the unprotected female to respond to them if he did. He had grown so accustomed to regarding his typist as a mechanical adjunct to the office typewriter that he suffered a mild shock when one day Miss Jennings remarked:-- "So Mr. Atherton's gone? Well, he was no more use than nothing in the office, but he wasn't a bad sort--not if you took him the right way and kept him in his place." "He was a friend of yours, then?" said Philip. "Well, he used to take me out sometimes." "Where to?" "Oh, the White City, or a theatre. It's a nice change to be taken out by a gentleman sometimes. When you go by yourself with your sister," explained Miss Jennings, "you go in the pit. When any one like Mr. Atherton took me it was reserved seats and dinner somewhere first. I love the theatre. Don't you?" "I don't go very often," confessed Philip. "Why not?" "I don't know. Perhaps it is because I have no one to go with." Miss Jennings collected her papers and rose. "Well, I must finish these," she said. "Will there be anything more this morning, Mr. Meldrum?" "Thank you, that is all." Philip surveyed the retreating form of Miss Jennings with thoughtful eyes, and his heart smote him. By evicting the incapable Mr. Atherton he had deprived this plucky, chirpy little city sparrow of one of her most cherished recreations. "Oh--Miss Jennings," he said nervously. Miss Jennings turned. "Would you care to come to the theatre with me?" Miss Jennings's slightly anæmic features broke into a frank smile. "It's no good my pretending I don't want to go to the theatre when I do," she remarked; "so why not say so? Where shall we go?" "Anywhere you please." "When?"