there was little fear of publicity; the store
itself would see to that. Vastly relieved and refreshed in spirit, David
Berthelin began to take stock of his companion with growing interest.
She was decidedly not pretty. Just as decidedly she was quaint and
piquant and quite new to his jejune but also somewhat bored experience.
From the opening passage of their first conversation he deduced, lacking
the insight to discriminate between honest frankness and immodesty, that
she was a "fly kid." On that theory he invited her to breakfast with
him. Mayme accepted. They went to Thomson's Elite Restaurant, on the
corner, where David roused mingled awe and misgivings in the breast of
Polyglot Elsa, the cashier, by ordering champagne, and Mayme reassured
her by declining it.

Thus began an acquaintanceship which swiftly ripened into a queer sort
of intimacy, more than a little disturbing to us of Our Square who were
interested in Mayme. Young Berthelin's over-ornate roadster lingered in
our quiet precincts more often than appeared to us suitable or safe, and
black-eyed Mayme, looking demure and a little exalted, was whirled away
to unknown worlds, always returning, however, at respectable hours. When
the Little Red Doctor remonstrated with her ostensibly on the score of
her health, she reminded him in one breath that he hadn't been invited
to censor her behavior which was entirely her own affair, and in the
next--with his hand caught between hers and her voice low and
caressing--declared that he was the best little old Doc in the world and
there was nothing to worry about, either as to health or conduct.
Indeed, her condition seemed to be improving. I dare say young Mr.
Berthelin's expensive food was one of the things she needed.
Furthermore, she ceased to be the raggle-taggle, hoydenishly clad Mayme
of the cash department, and, having been promoted to saleswoman, quite
went in for dress. On this point she sought the advice of the Bonnie
Lassie. The result went far to justify my prophecy that Mayme's queer
little face might yet make its share of trouble in an impressionable
world. But the Bonnie Lassie shook her bonnie head privately and said
that the fine-feathers development was a bad sign, and that if young
Berthelin would obligingly run his seventeen-jeweled roadster off the
Williamsburgh Bridge, with himself in it, much trouble might be saved
for all concerned.

If little Mayme were headed for trouble, she went to meet it wi