gle to catch the eye.
The array of shining brass rods and glass stands, the gaudy ticket on
each pair of boots with the shillings marked in enormous red figures
and the pence faintly outlined beside them, pleased her eye like a
picture. To-day the silver lettering was covered with narrow posters
announcing that Jonah's red-letter sale was to begin to-morrow. And as
she stared at this huge machine for coining money, she remembered, with
a sudden disdain, her home with its atmosphere of decay and genteel
poverty. She was conscious of some change in herself. The slight
sense of physical repugnance to the hunchback had vanished since his
declaration. He and his shop stood for power and success. What else
mattered?

Her spirits drooped suddenly as she remembered the obstacle that lay
between her and the pride of openly sharing the triumphs of the Silver
Shoe as she already shared its secrets. She thought with dismay of the
furtive meetings drawn out for years without hope of relief unless the
impossible happened. A watched pot never boils, and Ada was a young
woman.

She crossed the street and entered the shop, her eye scouting for Jonah
as she walked to the foot of the stairs, for since the appointment of a
manager, Jonah had found time to slip up to the room after the lesson
to ask her to play for him, on the plea that the piano was spoiling for
want of use. And he waited impatiently for these stolen moments, with
a secret desire to see her beneath his roof in a domestic setting that
gave him a keener sense of intimacy than the swish of waters and wide
spaces of sea and sky. But to-day she looked in vain, and Miss
Giltinan, seeing the swift look of inquiry, stepped up to her.

"Mr Jones was called away suddenly over some arrangements for our sale
that opens to-morrow. He left word with me that he'd be back as soon
as possible," she said.

Clara thanked her, and flushed slightly. It seemed as if Jonah were
excusing himself in public for missing an appointment. As she went up
the stairs one shopman winked at the other and came across with a pair
of hobnailed boots in his hand.

"This'll never do," he whispered, "the boss missin' his lesson. He'll
get behind in his practice."

"Wotcher givin' us?" replied the other. "The boss don't take lessons;
it's the kid."

"Of course he don't," said the other with a leer. "He learns a lot
here by lookin' on, an' she tells him the rest at Mosman in the pale
moonli