She opened the door and went in. The place was filled with customers, but a bustling salesman came forward and smiled into Beatrice's pretty flushed face. Yes, certainly, he would take them out of the show window. They were the only pair in stock,--a sample pair. He tried one of the satin slippers on Beatrice's dainty foot, and stepped back to admire the effect. "They are a perfect fit," he exclaimed. "Yes," said Beatrice. They pinched her toes a little, but she would not wear them often. "Five dollars, did you say?" Then she should have to wait for the silk hose to match. She had hoped they would not be more than four. She pondered a moment, and then decided aloud, "I'll take them." The salesman hurried away to put them in their box, and Beatrice, looking around for the first time, encountered the keen glance of a pair of dark eyes at the opposite counter. It was Francis Lindsay. There was one dismayed moment,--then she hastily averted her glance without bowing in recognition. "He has watched me buy those silly slippers," she thought, growing red and white by turns. "He has stood there watching me admire myself in them. His eyes were full of unutterable things. Oh, I just--hate him!" She glanced into the long mirror opposite, and it reflected back a figure from which all the morning daintiness had fled. Her boots were dusty, her gloves gaping at the fingers. The jaunty hat was awry;--her face was flushed, and burned with fatigue and heat. The salesman returned with the package, and Beatrice gave him the five-dollar bill. She hastily left the store, and, still with averted eyes, bumped into the very person she was seeking to avoid. "I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat. "It was my awkwardness. I stopped to raise my umbrella. You see it rains a little." Then noticing that she carried no umbrella, and that she was looking very tired, he asked kindly, "Are you going home?" "I think I am ready for home," answered Beatrice, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. "I've been down town since ten o'clock----" She stopped suddenly, the absurdity of the statement coupled with the single package of which he had relieved her, appealing to her with full force. "But you've had luncheon?" "I am not at all hungry," declared Beatrice perversely. She was very near to tears, and she felt that another question on his part might precipitate them. "This is the very time to have you taste the German cake they call 'puffer,' and which can be had only in this shop," said Francis,--and almost before she knew it he had led the way into a caterer's, and a neat little maid was taking an order for iced chocolate and the German sweet-bread.