was absurd, she decided, to endeavour to
argue with this worldly child of Whitehall.

"They're all the same," continued Marjorie, lifting her skirt slightly
and gazing with obvious approval at the symmetry of her leg. "You
didn't let him, I hope," continued the girl. "You see, it makes it bad
for others." Then a moment later she added, "It should be chocs.
before kisses, and they've got to learn the ropes."

"And you, you little imp, have got to learn morals." Dorothy laughed
in spite of herself at the quaint air of wisdom with which this girl of
eighteen settled the ethics of Whitehall.

"What's the use of morals?" cried the girl. "I mean morals that get in
the way of your having a good time. Of course I wouldn't----" She
paused.

"Never mind what you wouldn't do, Brynhilda the Bold," said Dorothy,
"but concentrate on the woulds, and bring me the tea you promised."

The girl slipped off the table and darted across the room, returning a
few minutes later with a cup of tea and a few biscuits.

"I can't stop," she panted. "Old Goggles has been giving me the bird;"
and with that she was gone.

It was a quarter to seven before John Dene returned. Without a word he
threw his hat on the bookcase and seated himself at his table. For the
next quarter of an hour he was absorbed in reading the lists and
letters Dorothy had typed. At seven o'clock Dorothy placed the last
list on the table before him.

"Is there anything more, Mr. Dene?" she enquired. She was conscious of
feeling inexpressibly weary.

"Yes," said John Dene, without looking up. "You're coming out to have
some dinner."

"I'm afraid I can't, thank you," she said. "My mother is waiting."

"Oh shucks!" he cried, looking up quickly.

"But it isn't!" she said wearily.

"Isn't what?" demanded John Dene.

"Shucks!" she said; then, seeing the absurdity of the thing, she
laughed.

"We'll send your mother an express message or a wire. You look dead
beat." He smiled and Dorothy capitulated. It would be nice, she told
herself, not to have to go all the way to Chiswick before having
anything to eat.

"But where are you taking me, Mr. Dene?" enquired Dorothy, as they
turned from Waterloo Place into Pall Mall.

"To the Ritzton."

"But I'm--I'm----" she stopped dead.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, looking at her in surprise.

"I--I can't go there," she stammered. "I'm not dressed for----" She
broke off lamely.

"That'll be all right," h