“‘Wild?’ I should think Miss Trant was ready to pat herself on the back for the next week, eh? Who’d ’a thought of this, that day we were all trying to buck her up at lunch when she was afraid she was going to get the sack? Didn’t I say then, though, that Miss Trant would do all right because she’d got a taking way with men? But—the Governor himself—that we never did look upon as just a ‘man!’ Well, you never can tell!” “I shall never try to, after _this_ afternoon,” announced Miss Robinson. “Not after his marching in at that door there, and saying, in quite a human sort of voice—not his own voice at all—that is, you’ll excuse me, Miss Trant! You know what I mean!—saying, ‘_I have some news to tell you ladies. Miss Trant and I are engaged to be married!_’” “Married to the head of the firm—my hat!” breathed Miss Holt, devouring me with her eyes, as if she thought that by staring hard enough she might discover the secret of how one achieved this giddy height. “Too grand to speak to any of us after this! Look at that ring of hers! Think of all _that_ means!”— Yes! If she only could! —“No more turning out to get to business every morning, wet or dry, with the mud still stiff on your skirt that you haven’t had time to brush! No more lining up with the crowd to wait for that beastly old workman’s tram at the ‘Elephant!’ No more strap-hanging! No more packed motor-buses with flower-women, and goodness knows what, shoving their baskets into you and trampling on your feet as they get in!” She took breath, and then, for fear one of the others should interrupt before she finished this harangue upon the Dignity of Labour, she hurried on—“No more having to keep on at it if you _are_ ready to drop and your eyes popping out of your head—no more A.B.C. girls not taking the slightest notice of your order and _then_ giving you sauce because you’ve waited half an hour for your lunch—no more slaving from har’-past nine to six for _her_ any more!... I suppose you know you’re _most awfully lucky_?” “In some ways,” murmured Miss Smith softly. “But having stacks of money and never having to work again isn’t _everything_!” And the dreamy look that came into her eyes irritated me worse than the loudly-expressed envy of the other girl. Miss Holt’s type of mind, that cares only for the things that she can see and handle and wear and eat and drink, _is_ so much easier to tackle than an _un_-practical person’s point of view. I’m glad I’m rather like Miss Holt, myself. These sentimental people are too tiresome! I simply couldn’t help one snap at Miss Smith as I turned to her. “I suppose _nothing’s_ ‘everything’ except wasting _years_ waiting for Love in a flat? I suppose you despise any hard-up girl who’s sick of the struggle and who marries for comfort and a home?”