Cornelia hailed the prospect with delight, and mentally dedicated the morning to doing a picture-gallery, and to choosing a suitable present for her aunt and Elma Ramsden. Aunt Soph should have lace; something soft, and smooth, and womanly, to take the place of the prickly steel trimmings which seemed to constitute her one idea of adornment. Elma, dear thing, what should be chosen for her? Not clothes; it would not be good taste to offer another gift of the kind; a piece of jewellery would be best; something good and quiet, and unobtrusive, suitable for the wear of "a nice young girl." Cornelia chuckled to herself in prospective enjoyment next morning, as she repaired to the private sitting-room of the suite, where breakfast was invariably served. Her host and hostess had already risen from the table and were dressed for walking. Mrs Moffatt stood before the window looking down into the street with a pale and worried expression. Her husband was scribbling at a side table, but jumped up at Cornelia's entrance, as if he had been anxiously awaiting her appearance. "Ah, good-morning, Miss Briskett! We are just off, but I wanted to settle up with you first. Here's the cheque, with many thanks! Perhaps you will kindly look over it, to see it is all right." "Oh, Mr Moffatt, you should not have troubled when you were so hustled. It's too good of you!" cried Cornelia, eagerly, her heart warming to the little man for a promptitude in money matters which reminded her of her own beloved Poppar. "Of course it's all right!" She cast a casual glance over the cheque, and broke into a surprised laugh. "It isn't, though! You've paid me too much! I guess I'm not a usurer, to want interest for a single night. It was only two hundred that I lent!" Mr Moffatt gave an exclamation of irritation. "And I have made it out for two hundred and fifty! How very annoying! I have advised it to the bank, too, and sent off the letter. I wanted to get through with as much business as possible this morning. The more hurry the less speed! Why on earth could you not give me the right figures, Gertrude?" He turned upon his wife with an expression of querulous anger, which she treated with her usual cool disdain.