"I do hope nothing's happened," she clucked. "So funny not having heard. I wonder if I ought to telephone to ask. Perhaps Mr. Bertram's ill. Did you _see_ him last night? D'you think I ought to ring up? I'm so worried. It's so strange, and Madam being so ill, and that." "I shouldn't worry," urged Sally. "He'll 'phone fast enough if there's anything to say. Look at yesterday." "Yes; but perhaps he's ill himself." "Sick," commented Sally. "He's bilious, you know." Miss Summers shook her head, and sighed. "Yes," she readily agreed. "I'm afraid he's not the man his mother is." They had hardly finished speaking when Miss Summers was called to the telephone. She was away for two or three minutes; and returned with tears streaming down her cheeks. All their pink plumpness was softened into a blur of tearful weakness. She was bent and dissolved under disaster. As she made her way up the long workroom to her place the girls all craned their necks to look at Miss Summers, and one or two--the kinder ones--rose to see if they could do anything to comfort her. But it was to Sally that Miss Summers turned, and within an inch of Sally's cheeks that she shook her tear-stained face. At first she could not speak; but grimaced like a child, as if her cold nose was smarting. Sally was first to hear the news; but all of them had known it from the first glimpse of Miss Summers in tears. "She's gone," cried Miss Summers, "Poor soul, she's gone. And what will happen to us I don't know." "_We'll_ be all right," Sally murmured, with singular confidence. A shock had slightly discomposed her, but it was not a shock of sorrow for the death of Madame Gala. Rather was it a passing thrill of dismay at her own responsibility, which her reassuring speech had been intended to remove. "She's dead.... Madam's dead...." ran through the workroom. One girl hurried to tell Miss Rapson and the workers in her department, who came crowding immediately into the room, agog with excitement. They all gathered together in a body, and then in detached groups, talking fast. "I s'pose we'll all have a day off for the funeral," somebody said with a giggle. "Oo, yes. Sure to. And have to wear mourning," added another girl, more solemnly and hopefully. Sally stood, as if by right, with Miss Summers and Miss Rapson. She was definitely a principal figure in the scene. Just as the other girls began to notice this, and murmuringly to comment upon it as a piece of characteristic impudence, Miss Summers had a quick return of memory. Gesticulating with helpless impatience, she said: "Oh, Sally; I'd quite forgotten. Mr. Bertram _is_ ill. And the nurse said he was asking to see you. Yes, asking to see ... Miss Minto."