Whilst Dorothy was building castles in Spain upon a foundation of eleven dollars a week, John Dene walked briskly along the corridor leading to Sir Lyster's room. Mr. Blair was seated at his desk reading with calm deliberation and self-evident satisfaction a letter he had just written for Sir Lyster to one of his constituents. He had devoted much time and thought to the composition, as it was for publication, and he was determined that no one should find in it flaw or ambiguity. The morning had been one of flawless serenity, and he was looking forward to a pleasant lunch with some friends at the Berkeley. "Here, what the hell do you mean by giving that girl only nine dollars a week?" Suddenly the idyllic peaceful ness of his mood was shattered into a thousand fragments. John Dene had burst into the room with the force of a cyclone, and stood before him like an accusing fury. "Nine dollars a week! What girl?" he stuttered, looking up weakly into John Dene's angry eyes. "I--I----" "Miss West," was the retort. "She's getting nine dollars a week, less than I pay an office boy in T'ronto." "But I--it's nothing to do with me," began Mr. Blair miserably. He had become mortally afraid of John Dene, and prayed for the time to come when the Hun submarine menace would be ended, and John Dene could return to Toronto, where no doubt he was understood and appreciated. "Well, it ought to be," snapped John Dene, just as Sir Bridgman North came out of Sir Lyster's room. "Good morning, Mr. Dene," he cried genially. "What are you doing to poor Blair?" John Dene explained his grievance. "I'd pay the difference myself, just to make you all feel a bit small, only she won't take it from me." "Well, I think I can promise that the matter shall be put right, and we'll make Blair take her out to lunch by way of apology, shall we?" he laughed. "I'd like to see him ask her," said John Dene grimly. "That girl's a high-stepper, sir. Nine dollars a week!" he grumbled as he left the room to the manifest relief of Mr. Blair. "You're being gingered-up, Blair," said Sir Bridgman; "in fact, we're all being gingered-up. It's a bit surprising at first; but it's a great game played slow. You'll get to like it in time, and it's all for the good of the British Empire." Mr. Blair smiled weakly as Sir Bridgman left the room; but in his heart he wished it were possible to have a sentinel outside his door, with strict injunctions to bayonet John Dene without hesitation should he seek admittance. "I've fixed it," announced John Dene, as he burst in upon Dorothy's day dream. "You'll get twenty dollars in future." She looked up quickly. "You're very kind, Mr. Dene," she said, "but is it--is it----?" she hesitated. "It's a square deal. I told them you wouldn't take it from me, and that I wasn't going to have my secretary paid less than an office boy in T'ronto. I gingered 'em up some. Nine dollars a week for you!"