ed Miss Hunter.

"Men are scarcely expected to be paragons," said Mavis.

"When he was last at home, he was often about with Sir Archibald
Windebank."

"I know him too," declared Mavis.

"Nonsense!"

"Why shouldn't I? His father was my father's oldest friend."

Miss Hunter winced; she stared fixedly at Mavis, with eyes in which
admiration and envy were expressed. Later, when Mavis was leaving for
the day, Miss Hunter fussed about her with many assurances of regard.

To Mavis's surprise, Miss Toombs joined her outside the
factory--surprise, because the elder woman rarely spoke to her, seeming
to avoid rather than cultivate her acquaintance.

"I can say here what I can't say before that little cat," remarked Miss
Toombs.

Mavis stared at the plainly clad, stumpy little figure in astonishment.

"I mean it," continued Miss Toombs. "She's a designing little
hypocrite. I know you're too good a sort to give me away."

"I didn't know you liked me well enough to confide in me," remarked
Mavis.

"I don't like you."

"Why not?" asked Mavis, surprised at the other woman's candour.

"Look at you!" cried Miss Toombs savagely, as she turned away from
Mavis. "But what I was also going to say was this: don't have too much
to do with young Perigal."

"I'm not likely to."

"Don't, all the same. You're much too good for him."

"Why? Is he fast?" asked Mavis.

"It wouldn't matter if he were. But he is what some people call a
'waster.'"

"He admits that himself."

"He's a pretty boy. But I don't think he's the man to make a woman
happy, unless--"

"Unless what?"

"She despised him or knocked him about."

"I won't forget," laughed Mavis.

"Good day."

"Won't you come home to tea?"

"No, thanks," said Miss Toombs, as she made off, to leave Mavis gazing
at the ill-dressed, squat figure hurrying along the road.

As might be expected, Miss Hunter's and Miss Toombs' disparagement of
Charlie Perigal but served to incline Mavis in his favour. She thought
of him all the way home, and wondered how soon she would see him again.
When she opened the door of her room, an overpowering scent of violets
assailed her nostrils; she found it came from a square cardboard box
which lay upon the table, having come by post addressed to her. The box
was full of violets, upon the top of which was a card.

She snatched this up, to see if it would tell her who had sent the
flowers. It merely read, "With love to Jill."

Her heart