e slightest
inconvenience?"

[Illustration: ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU CAN SPARE SO LARGE A SUM?]

"Quite certain," said Mr. Rowlandson; and then added, "I always have a
little ready money laid by--waiting for a really safe investment--like
this one--at five per cent."

Half an hour later Phyllis shook hands with the old bookseller. She had
an afterthought.

"A few of the valentines are framed. Does that make any difference? And,
tell me, Mr. Rowlandson, how can they be taken from our rooms and
delivered at your shop?"

"Well, now," said Mr. Rowlandson, pondering, "I am so much afraid of
fire in the shop it would really be a favor to me if you would let them
remain where they are--for the present; for the present, at least."

Phyllis shook hands again. The little bell tinkled. She was gone. In her
purse were five ten-pound notes. In her heart was a glad song.

Through the shop-window, Mr. Rowlandson watched her cross the street
swiftly. Then he turned. The valentines lay on the table, where she had
left them,--samples of the wares she brought to market. He wrapped them,
tied the parcel neatly, and carried it back to his desk. The square,
black volume labeled "Proceedings of the British Engineering Society"
caught his attention. He stared at it for some moments Then his blue
eyes twinkled.

IX

The copper coffee percolator bubbled genially on the snowy dinner table.
John and Phyllis were seated. Mrs. Farquharson set the soup tureen
before him, and hovered near. In the small grate a fire blazed
cheerfully; the firelight gleamed on the fine mahogany and ivory inlay
of the Sheraton desk. There lay John's manuscript,--returned this
afternoon from Oxford, with the stereotyped politeness that was so
disheartening.

Phyllis's suppressed excitement gave her cheeks their color; John
feigned higher spirits than the occasion warranted; he made a point of
eating his soup; Phyllis tasted hers.

Mrs. Farquharson served the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding (her
specialty), received due plaudits, and withdrew. John attacked the
dinner; Phyllis's fork toyed with her greens. The all-important subject
was not mentioned until Genevieve had cleared the table. Phyllis passed
John a small cup of black coffee.

"Well, Phyllis," he said, "Byrne, the Dublin publisher, remains to us.
Oxford declines Cambridge verses."

Then Phyllis, blushing like a rose, laid in his hand the five ten-pound
notes. He looked at her with perplexed