Miss Masters made a face at him and the boy, whistling derisively, disappeared through the door, not failing to slam it loudly after him. Miss Masters resumed her letter sorting. The door opened slowly. A man entered with his hat over his eyes. His hands were deep in his pockets and he chewed a despondent looking cigar. Had the reader been present he would have recognized him instantly, despite his unaccustomed air of lugubriousness, as our old friend, Mr. Michael Grogan. "Good morning, Mr. Grogan," said Miss Masters cordially. Grogan made no reply. The girl went on with her work. Then as if communing with herself she said: "And yet they say the Irish are always polite." "Eh?" said Grogan, rousing himself, "what's that?" Miss Masters vouchsafed no reply. She merely laughed. Grogan, conscious that he was being chaffed, stared at her. He was pleased with what he saw. He found Miss Masters handsome. Her office dress, slit at the bottom and displaying at this moment a neat ankle, was ruched about the neck and sleeves. It was a rather elaborate dress for a stenographer, but John Boland was a vain man and liked to have the employes he kept close about him maintain the appearance of prosperity. In fact, he paid these particular employes well with the explicit understanding that they would keep their appearance up to his standard. "You're making light of me gray hairs, I see," said Mr. Grogan, smiling. "Well," said the girl, "I said good morning to you and you didn't even grunt in reply." "The top of the morning to you, Miss Masters," said Grogan, hastening to remedy his oversight and removing his hat with an ornate bow. "Sure, and I'm wishing you the same and many of them," replied the girl. Mr. Grogan bowed again and added: "And, if I have failed in the politeness due a lady, I begs yer pardon." "You're forgiven, Mr. Grogan," replied Miss Masters, resuming her work. Grogan returned to his meditations. He was regarding his mutilated cigar ruefully when Miss Masters observed: "If all of the millionaires were as thorough gentlemen as you are, Mr. Grogan, we wouldn't have any labor unions." The word millionaire seemed to sting Grogan. "I'll thank you," he said abruptly, "to leave me out of the millionaire class." "Why, Mr. Grogan," said the girl, surprised, "I thought you'd like that!" "So would I--wanst," retorted Grogan, "but now when any one says 'you millionaire,' faith, I get ready to dodge a brick." "I should think it would be pleasant to know you had a million dollars." There was a note of envy in the girl's voice. Grogan rose slowly, walked to the desk and leaned across it confidentially. "So it always was," he said sententiously, "but now they're beginning to ask, 'Where did you get it?'" "Oh," said the girl. "It's not 'Oh,' I'm saying," said Grogan, "it's 'Ouch!'" "Something's disturbing you, eh?" "Something--and somebody. 'Tis a girl." "Oh, Mr. Grogan!"