Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was entirely superficial, found himself for some reason curiously attracted by this glimpse into a world of luxury of which he knew nothing; attracted, too, by the woman's delicate face with its uncommon type of beauty. Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and motionless, framed in the doorway. Tavernake continued to stare, unmindful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action. The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow. A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She spoke through the tube at her side and turned to her companion. Meanwhile, the footman, leaning from his place, held out his arm in warning and the car was slowly backed to the side of the pavement. The lady felt for a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round table in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through the open window to the servant who had already descended and was standing waiting. He came at once towards the shop, passing Tavernake, who remained in the door-way. “Will you make this up at once, please?” he directed, handing the paper across to the chemist. The chemist took it in his hand and turned away mechanically toward the dispensing room. Suddenly he paused, and, looking back, shook his head. “For whom is this prescription required?” he asked. “For my mistress,” the man answered. “Her name is there.” “Where is she?” “Outside; she is waiting for it.” “If she really wants this made up to-night,” the chemist declared, “she must come in and sign the book.” The footman looked across the counter, for a moment, a little blankly. “Am I to tell her that?” he inquired. “It's only a sleeping draught. Her regular chemist makes it up all right.” “That may be,” the man behind the counter replied, “but, you see, I am not her regular chemist. You had better go and tell her so.” The footman departed upon his errand without a glance at the girl who was sitting within a few feet of him. “I am very sorry, madam,” he announced to his mistress, “that the chemist declines to make up the prescription unless you sign the book.” “Very well, then, I will come,” she declared. The woman, handed from the automobile by her servant, lifted her white satin skirts in both hands and stepped lightly across the pavement. Tavernake stood on one side to let her pass. She seemed to him to be, indeed, a creature of that other world of which he knew nothing. Her slow, graceful movements, the shimmer of her skirt, her silk stockings, the flashing of the diamond buckles upon her shoes, the faint perfume from her clothes, the soft touch of her ermine as she swept by--all these things were indeed strange to him. His eyes followed her with rapt interest as she approached the counter. “You wish me to sign for my prescription?” she asked the chemist. “I will do so, with pleasure, if it is necessary, only you must not keep me waiting long.”