"Oh, no--only to come for a half-day every morning. Sundays included, to bathe the darlings, make their toilets, and take them for a walk in the Park. After that they will be in the care of Fritz, the house-boy, who is quite good. Only he has not a woman’s delicacy of touch and sympathy. They need sympathy quite as much as a human being does, if not more so." Isla repressed an almost overpowering desire to laugh aloud, and she politely inquired what would be the remuneration for this occupation. "Seven-and-sixpence a week and luncheon. I reckoned that by the time you had returned from the Park it would be one or half-past one, and the servants’ dinner would be going on, so that your luncheon would never be missed," said Madame Schultze with an engaging frankness. "Of course, the work is not hard, and it is delightful, besides. You don’t know what a privilege it is to have the care of such pets. They are so dainty and so very, very human." Isla thanked her and said that she was afraid the post would not suit her. "Oh, but why not come for a few days and try it?" said the odd woman, who had taken a fancy to Isla. "You look different from the creatures who usually call when one wants anybody. You look even as if you might have had pet dogs of your own." Something caught at Isla’s throat as she remembered. "I have had them. But, thank you, I’m sorry I can’t come. The--the money is much too small. I shall have to find something to do which will keep me. I am not well off. Good morning, Madame Schultze." "You won’t leave your name? I might find you something. My husband has a large acquaintance on the Stock Exchange, and we move in very good society," said Madame Schultze with a kind of indolent good-humour. But Isla, with another hasty word of thanks, withdrew. She felt almost hysterical as the door was politely closed upon her by the foreign butler, and she dashed something like a tear from her eye. "Serves you right, Isla Mackinnon, for all the airs you give yourself! Seven-and-six a week and the servants’ luncheon! What would they say at home?" She said "they," but it was the face of Peter Rosmead that came persistently before her--of Peter the Bridge-builder, with thousands in his pocket that he could not spend! Would Peter, if he met her in the park airing pet dogs for a livelihood, pass by, like a Levite, on the other side? Her lip curled whimsically at the thought. She did not welcome the memory of Rosmead, which had come unsought. In her secret heart she felt disappointed that he had not written. True, he had not promised to do so, nor had he even asked whether he might. But other men did not wait for permission. Neil Drummond never lost an opportunity of speaking or writing to her, and often she did not trouble to read his letters through. She was brought back from her reveries sharply by finding herself once more in the Bayswater Road with the rest of the day in front of her.