belonged to days before thrift
became a hobby.

"Seems to me," she said, without leading up to the remark, "that Miss
Rabbit is the weak link in our chain." Gertie did not make any
comment. "I'm going to tell you something. I want to give her other
work to do, and get you to take her place. It will amount to an extra
ten shillings a week, Miss Higham."

"Do you really mean it?"

"It's why I asked you to come here this evening. You see, you have
improved so much this summer. Improved in style, speech, everything!"

"There's a reason for that!"

Gertie Higham walked up and down the studio with excitement in her
eyes. She wanted to ask Madame how long the firm was likely to endure,
but to do this might lead to the betrayal of confidence; meanwhile she
fired inquiries, and Madame, eager to gain her approval of the
suggestion, answered each one promptly. Bunny was not to be reduced in
wages; only in position. One of the new duties would be to run about
and see people; Madame's nerves were not quite all they used to be, and
the hurried traffic of the street frightened her. Next to Madame,
Gertie would be considered, so to speak, as head cook and
bottle-washer. Gertie, collecting all this information, wondered how
it would be possible to let Henry Douglass know that she was making
important progress. Possibly it could be managed through Clarence
Mills and Miss Loriner; she might meet him in London, at some
unexpected moment.

"Do you object, Madame," she asked, "if I run off now, and tell aunt
about it?"

"You accept the offer?"

"Like a shot!" answered Gertie.

"You dear!" cried Madame.

Frederick Bulpert was on the point of leaving when she reached Praed
Street; he came back into the shop parlour to hear the news. Her aunt
kissed her, and said Gertie was a good, clever girl; Bulpert declared
the promotion well earned.

"This is distinctly frankincense and myrrh," he acknowledged. "I feel
proud of you, and I don't care who hears me say so. Let me see; your
birthday's next week, isn't it? How about arranging something in the
nature of a conversazione, or what not?"

"I hope," said Mrs. Mills, escorting him through the shop, "that, later
on, you'll do your best to make her happy."

"But it's her," protested Bulpert, "it's her that's got to make me
happy."

CHAPTER IX.

Clarence Mills, invited to be present at the birthday evening, wrote in
frolicsome terms, from which the young hoste