"Well," she said, putting forth her hand as she entered. "I really thought you had quite forgotten me. Your note last night gave me a great surprise." "I suppose if the truth were known you were engaged for to-day, eh?" I asked mischievously, for I took a keen delight in chaffing her about her admirers. "Well, you've pretty well guessed the truth," she laughed, blushing slightly as she took the chair I offered her. "What is he this time--dark or fair?" I asked. "Dark. A rather nice fellow-cashier in a bank in the City." "And he takes you out often, I suppose?" "Two or three times a week," she answered, quite frankly. "We go to a music-hall sometimes, or, if not, down to the Monico." "The Monico!" I laughed, remembering how popular that restaurant was with shop-assistants and clerks. "Why always the Monico?" "Ah!" she smiled. "We can't afford Frascati's, the Cafe Royal, or Yerrey's. We get a little life at the Monico at small cost, and it doesn't matter to us whether our neighbours wear tweeds or not. A man not in evening dress in the Cafe Royal, Verrey's, or Jimmy's is looked upon as an outsider; so we avoid those places." "And you like him, eh?" I inquired, amused. "As much as I like all the others," she responded with a light, irresponsible air, toying with the handle of her umbrella. "Life in London is frightfully dull if a girl has nobody to take her out. She can't go about alone as she can in the country, and girls in business are not very friendly towards each other. You've no idea how many jealousies exist among girls in shops." "I suppose if a man goes to Madame Gabrielle's to buy a bonnet for a present, or something, you all think he ought to take notice of you?" I laughed. "Of course," she replied. "But it's the travellers from the wholesale houses who are most sought after by the girls; first, because they are generally pretty well to do, and secondly, they often know of good `cribs' of which they tell the girls who are their favourites, and give them a recommendation into the bargain." "I always used to think that the shop-walker in the drapery places had a pretty lively time of it. Is that so?" "They're always jealous of the travellers," she said. "The shop-walker fancies himself a lady-killer because he's trained to do the amiable to the customers, and he can get the girls in his department into awful hot water if he likes; therefore he doesn't care much for the good-looking town traveller, who comes in his brougham and has such a very gay and easy life of it. Girls in drapers' shops are compelled to keep in with the shop-walker, but they hate him because he's usually such a tyrant." "Then you may thank your stars that you haven't a shop-walker," I laughed.