“Who? The girls? Haven’t they noticed? Why, a blind man could feel the difference in you ten feet away.” “You’re the only one that has noticed it so far, and you’re an artist.” “Well, I suppose the girls wouldn’t,” said the illustrator thoughtfully. “They see too much of you to recognize the change.” What Andy Dunne’s exercises had so obviously wrought in muscle and condition, Andy Dunne’s discipline had accomplished for character. Imperceptibly even to herself, the inner Darcy was growing strong. One result was a new zest in her designing, taking the form of experiments aside from the beaten track which did not always meet the approval of B. Riegel, active head of B. Riegel & Sons, manufacturers of wall-paper. Now Mr. Riegel’s approval, with the consequent check, was highly essential to Miss Darcy Cole’s plans. And Miss Darcy Cole’s attitude toward Mr. Riegel had always been acquiescent, not to say humble. But on a particular morning, when the designer was even more alive than she was now accustomed to feel, she brought in a particular design, upon which she had spent much time and thought, and with which she was well content. Not so Mr. Riegel. Being first, last, and between times a man of business, he hardly gave a glance to the dowdy girl as she entered, but bestowed his entire attention on the sketch. “Too blank,” was his verdict. “That makes it restful,” suggested Darcy. “Who wants restfulness? Pep! That’s what goes these days.” “It’s for a sleeping-room, you know.” For all the effect upon the wall-paper man she might as well not have spoken. He set two pencil cross-marks on the design. “Ornamentation here, and here,” he directed curtly. “I prefer it as it is,” said Darcy calmly. Two months—yes, two weeks before—Darcy would have stepped meekly out and ruined her pattern by introducing the Riegel ornamentation. But all was different now. Andy Dunne’s encomium, “because yah’r game,” had put fire in her blood. There was a reflection of it in her cheeks when Mr. Riegel looked up at her in surprise and annoyance. He saw the same familiar figure in the same shabby, ill-fitting clothes. But now she was standing up inside them. And she, whose dull regard formerly drooped away from the most casual encounter, was confronting him with bright and level eyes. “Suppose you give my way a trial,” suggested this changeling. “Mebbe you know more about this business than I do,” he challenged. “Not at all. But it’s my design, after all, isn’t it?” said the girl pleasantly. Gathering it up with hands which somehow suggested protectiveness against the Philistine blight of Mr. Riegel, she bestowed it safe in her imitation-leather roll. “I’ll try to bring you another next week,” she promised. “Wait, now, a minute!” cried the perplexed employer. “What’re you going to do with this one?” “Try it on Balke & Stover.” “Leave it,” he ordered. “Check’ll be sent.” He whirled around in his chair, presenting the broad hint of a busy back to her.