But as it was against the rules to go up into the bed-rooms, and, above all, for two to be shut in together, Denise took her to the end of the passage, into the ladies' drawing-room, a gallant present from Mouret to the young ladies, who could spend their evenings there till eleven o'clock. The apartment, decorated in white and gold, of the vulgar nudity of an hôtel room, was furnished with a piano, a central table, and some arm-chairs and sofas protected with white covers. But, after a few evenings spent together, in the first novelty of the thing, the saleswomen never went into the place without coming to high words at once. They required educating to it, the little trading city was wanting in accord. Meanwhile, almost the only one that went there in the evening was the second-hand in the corset department, Miss Powell, who strummed away at Chopin on the piano, and whose coveted talent ended by driving the others away. “You see my ankle's better now,” said Denise, “I was going downstairs.” “Well!” exclaimed the other, “what zeal! I'd take it easy if I had the chance!” They both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's attitude had changed since her friend had been promoted to be second-hand in the ready-made department. With her good-natured cordiality was mingled a shade of respect, a sort of surprise to feel the puny little saleswoman of former days on the road to fortune. Denise liked her very much, and confided in her alone, amidst the continual gallop of the two hundred women that the firm now employed. “What's the matter?” asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked the young girl's troubled looks. “Oh! nothing,” replied the latter, with an awkward smile. “Yes, yes; there's something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me, that you have given up telling me your troubles?” Then Denise, in the emotion that was swelling her bosom--an emotion she could not control--abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave her friend the letter, stammering: “Look! he has just written to me.” Between themselves, they had never openly spoken of Mouret. But this very silence was like a confession of their secret pre-occupations. Pauline knew everything. After having read the letter, she clasped Denise in her arms, and softly murmured: “My dear, to speak frankly, I thought it was already done. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as I do. Naturally! he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, then he's always after you. It's obvious!” She kissed her affectionately, and then asked her: “You will go this evening, of course?” Denise looked at her without replying. All at once she burst into tears, her head on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished.' “Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing in the affair to upset you like this.” “No, no; let me be,” stammered Denise. “If you only knew what trouble I am in! Since I received that letter, I have felt beside myself. Let me have a good cry, that will relieve me.”