"How would you like my Willie?" asked Elsie Crauford proudly. "Your Willie? I don't think he's anything to tear oilcloth over." "Didn't you think he looked nice in his evening dress?" "Your Willie's never bought himself an evening dress! _What!_ Girls, listen. The Great Millionaire's bought himself an evening dress." "You are rude, Jenny Pearl." "Well, I call it silly. Swanking round in evening dress with a bent halfpenny and his latchkey. And you needn't give me those perishing looks, young Elsie." "You are a hateful thing." "Your _Willie_ in evening dress. Oh, no, it can't be done." "Shut up, Jenny Pearl," cried Elsie, stamping her foot. "Now get in a paddy. I suppose it was you edged him on to go without his dinner for a week to buy it." "I hope you'll fall in love, and I hope he'll go away to New Zealand the same as Nelly Marlowe's Jack did." "Oh! There's an unnatural girl! _Don't_ you worry yourself. Not this little girl. Not Jenny Pearl. I wouldn't let any _man_ make a fool of me." That night a thunderstorm ruined Jenny's hat. Next day she bought another, pale green with rosy cherries bobbing at each side. "I think this hat's going to bring me luck," she announced. "The cherries is all right, but green isn't lucky," said Irene. "Oh, well," said Jenny, "I'll chance it, any old way." Chapter XIII: _The Ballet of Cupid_ The thunderstorm which ruined Jenny's hat destroyed summer. Blowy August twilights began to harass the leaves: darkness came earlier, and people, going home, hurried through the streets where lately they had lingered. Jenny's new green hat with bobbing cherries seemed to have strayed from the heart of a fresher season, and passers-by often turned to regard her as she strolled along Coventry Street toward the Orient. September brought louder winds and skies swollen with rain; but Jenny, rehearsing hard for a new ballet on the verge of production, had no leisure to grumble at chilly dusks and moonless journeys home to Hagworth Street.