"Old nuisance!" she remarked, as the half-curtained door closed. "I wonder how you can put up with her." "My aunt is very good to me." "Isn't it a pity," said the visitor inconsequently, "that you're so short? Well, not exactly short, but certainly only about middle height. I think"--she glanced at the mirror complacently--"my idea is it's partly because I'm tall that I attract so much notice. I'm sure the way they gaze round after I'm gone by--Well, it used to make me feel quite confused, but I've got over that. You don't have to put up with such experiences, Gertie." "Afraid I forget to turn to see if they're looking." "You've got rather a thoughtless disposition," agreed the other. "Once or twice lately, when I've been telling you things that I don't tell to everybody, it's struck me that you've been scarcely listening." The door was closed, but Miss Radford verified this before proceeding. "What do you think?" she asked in an awed voice. "Whatever do you think? Two of my old ones have met. Met at a smoking concert apparently. And they somehow started talking, and my name cropped up, and," tearfully, "they've written me such a unkind letter, with both their names to it. On the top of it all, the latest one caught sight of me yesterday afternoon, dressing the window at our establishment, so that he won't put in an appearance at the Marble Arch this evening." "Why not?" "Because I told him I was an artist. Said I had a picture in the Royal Academy the year before last." "You are rather foolish at times, aren't you?" "I wish, darling," wailed Miss Radford, "that you could tell me something I don't know." The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour, and Mrs. Mills's niece, suddenly alarmed, said she would not be absent for more than ten minutes, an announcement the visitor received with an incredulous shake of the head. As a fact, Gertie returned in five minutes fully apparelled, to discover Miss Radford improved in spirits and ready for more conversation. "A new blouse?" she cried, interrupting herself. "And you never told me. Gertie Higham," solemnly, "this isn't what I call friendship." The girl went straight through the shop, and looking up and down Praed Street, remarked to Mrs. Mills that it intended to be a fine evening. The elder lady said it was high time Gertie found a young man to take her out; the girl answered composedly that perhaps Mr. Trew might call and do her this service. "Or Fred Bulpert?" remarked the aunt pointedly. "No," she answered, "not Mr. Bulpert, thank you. Mr. Trew is different." "He isn't the man he was when I first knew him." "I like him because he's the man he is." She turned quickly at the sound of a deep, husky voice. Mr. Trew, on the mat, opened his arms at sight of her, and beamed with a face that was like the midday sun; she took his sleeve and pulled him to the pavement.