"Very likely not his own," I said, shaking my head at her. "My dear Million--for goodness' sake remind me to practise calling you 'Miss'; I'm always reminding you to practise not calling me it! My dear Miss Million, I feel in all my bones one sad presentiment. That young man is a fortune-hunter. I saw it in his bold and sea-blue eye. As it says in the advertisement, 'It's your money he wants.' I believe he's the sort of person who makes up to any one with money. (I expect all those other men he was with were rich enough.) And I don't think you ought to make friends with this Mr. Burke until we've heard a little more about him. Certainly I don't think you ought to let him come and see you here without further preliminaries to-morrow afternoon!" "What am I goin' to do about it, then?" asked Million in a small voice. Her mouth drooped. Her grey eyes gazed anxiously at me, to whom she now turns as her only guide, philosopher, and friend. She was evidently amazed that I didn't share her impressions of this "lovely" young "Honourable." She had wanted to see him "close to"--a fearful joy! She had meant to dress up in her grandest new finery for the occasion. And now she was woefully disappointed. Poor little soul! Yes; evidently her eyes had already been dazzled by that vision this morning outside the Cecil; that gay picture that had looked likesome brightly coloured smoking-room print. The brilliant, lemon-yellow-and-black coach, the postilion behind, the spanking white horses, the handsome, big, ruddy-faced young sportsman who was driving.... But it was my duty to see that only her eyes were caught. Not her heart--as it probably would be if she saw much more of that very showy young rake! And not her fortune. I said, feeling suddenly more grown-up and sensible than I've ever been in my life: "You will have to leave word that you are not at home to-morrow afternoon." "Very well, Miss Smith," said my employer blankly. She sat for a minute silent in the hotel easy-chair, holding the carnations. Then her small, disappointed face lighted up a little. "But I shall be at home," she reminded me, with a note of hope in her tone. "Got to be. It's Thursday to-morrow." "What about that?" I said, wondering if Million were again harking back to the rules of her previous existence. Thursday is my Aunt Anastasia's "day" for the stair-rods and the fenders, and the whole of No. 45 is wont to reek with Brasso. Could Million have meant---- No. She took up: "Don't you remember? Thursday afternoon was when that other young gentleman was going to drop in. Him from the bank. That Mr. Brace. He'll be coming. You said he might." "So he is," I said. "But that won't make any difference. You'll be 'at home' to him. Not to Mr. Burke. That's all." "I can't be in two places at once, and they're both coming at four," argued the artless Million. "How can I say I'm not at home, when----"