They went up to town together. Ella had to be at her office at half-past nine, and it is true that that seemed a trifle early to make a call upon a publisher. But, as Ella correctly observed, "You can look at the shops until it is time." Which is precisely what Madge did do. And it is remarkable how many things she saw in the shop windows which she mentally resolved to purchase if the book succeeded. Such an unusual number of useful things seemed to be displayed. And it certainly is odd what a quantity of them were just the articles which Ella and she particularly required. Her interview with the publisher was a delightful one. She agreed to everything he proposed. His propositions were not quite on the scale of magnificence which she had conceived as being within the range of possibility. But still, they were near enough to be satisfactory. She was to have a sum of money paid her on the publication of the book--not a large sum, but still something. And there was to be royalty besides. When she hinted, almost as if she had been hinting at something of which she ought to be ashamed, that if part of the money were paid before publication it would be esteemed a favour, that publisher went so far as to draw a check for half the amount, and to hand it to her then and there. It is a fact that Madge Brodie was an uncommonly pretty girl--but such an accident was not likely to make any impression on the commercial instincts of a creature who battens upon authors. She went straight off and cashed that cheque. When she had the coin in her pocket--actually in her pocket--she felt the financial equal of a Rothschild. She lunched all by herself at a restaurant in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross--and a nice little lunch she had; made some purchases, with one eye on Ella and another on herself; and then she went and gave a music lesson to Miss Clara Parkins, whose father is the proprietor of the Belvedere Tavern--that well-known hostelry, within a hundred miles of Wandsworth Common. Miss Parkins was within a year or two of her own age, an uncommonly shrewd young woman, and a pleasant one to boot. The lesson had not been proceeding two minutes before she perceived that something was disturbing the ordinarily tranquil currents of her teacher's mind. When the lesson was finished, she made a valiant effort to find out what that something was. She looked down, and she picked at the nap of her frock, and she asked, a tone or two under her usual key: "What is it? I wish you'd tell me." Madge stared; nothing which had gone before had led to such a question. "What is what?" "What is it which makes you--all brimming over?" Madge went red. She was an arrant little snob, and by no means proud of giving music lessons to a publican's daughter--although that publican's daughter was the best paying pupil she had, and not the least agreeable. She was on her stilts in a moment. "I don't understand you."