“What do you think of that for all the comforts of a home?” said Tembarom. “As if it wasn't enough for a man to have new socks without having marks put on them! What are your old socks made of anyhow--solid gold? Burglars ain't going to break in and steal them.” “They won't when I've marked them, Mr. Tembarom,” answered Little Ann, looking up at him with sober, round, for-get-me-not blue eyes, but with a deep dimple breaking out near her lip; “but all three pairs would not come home from the wash if I didn't.” “Three pairs!” ejaculated Tembarom. “He's got three pairs of socks! New? That's what's been the matter with him for the last week. Don't you mark them for him, Little Ann. 'Tain't good for a man to have everything.” “Here they are,” said Jim, bringing them forward. “Twenty-five marked down to ten at Tracy's. Are they pretty good?” Little Ann looked them over with the practised eye of a connoisseur of bargains. “They'd be about a shilling in Manchester shops,” she decided, “and they might be put down to sixpence. They're good enough to take care of.” She was not the young woman who is ready for prolonged lively conversation in halls and at bedroom doors, and she had turned away with the new socks in her hand when Tembarom, suddenly inspired, darted after her. “Say, I've just thought of something,” he exclaimed eagerly. “It's something I want to ask you.” “What is it?” “It's about the society-page lay-out.” He hesitated. “I wonder if it'd be rushing you too much if--say,” he suddenly broke off, and standing with his hands in his pockets, looked down at her with anxious admiration, “I believe you just know about everything.” “No, I don't, Mr. Tembarom; but I'm very glad about the page. Everybody's glad.” One of the chief difficulties Tembarom found facing him when he talked to Little Ann was the difficulty of resisting an awful temptation to take hold of her--to clutch her to his healthy, tumultuous young breast and hold her there firmly. He was half ashamed of himself when he realized it, but he knew that his venial weakness was shared by Jim Bowles and Steinberger and probably others. She was so slim and light and soft, and the serious frankness of her eyes and the quaint air of being a sort of grown-up child of astonishing intelligence produced an effect it was necessary to combat with. “What I wanted to say,” he put it to her, “was that I believe if you'd just let me talk this thing out to you it'd do me good. I believe you'd help me to get somewhere. I've got to fix up a scheme for getting next the people who have things happening to them that I can make society stuff out of, you know. Biker didn't make a hit of it, but, gee! I've just got to. I've got to.” “Yes,” answered Little Ann, her eyes fixed on him thoughtfully; “you've got to, Mr. Tembarom.” “There's not a soul in the parlor. Would you mind coming down and sitting there while I talk at you and try to work things out? You could go on with your marking.”