ase the number and quality of the little "surprises" she
took home with her to the mother in whose life she bulked so largely.
Peaches could be bought without the damning prefix "tinned"; salmon
without the discouraging modification "Canadian"; eggs that had not
long since forgotten what hen had laid them and when. She could take
her more often to a theatre, or for a run in a taxi when she was tired.
In short, a hundred and seventeen pounds a year would buy quite a lot
of rose-leaves with which to colour her mother's life.

Whilst Dorothy was building castles in Spain upon a foundation of
eleven dollars a week, John Dene walked briskly along the corridor
leading to Sir Lyster's room. Mr. Blair was seated at his desk reading
with calm deliberation and self-evident satisfaction a letter he had
just written for Sir Lyster to one of his constituents. He had devoted
much time and thought to the composition, as it was for publication,
and he was determined that no one should find in it flaw or ambiguity.
The morning had been one of flawless serenity, and he was looking
forward to a pleasant lunch with some friends at the Berkeley.

"Here, what the hell do you mean by giving that girl only nine dollars
a week?"

Suddenly the idyllic peaceful ness of his mood was shattered into a
thousand fragments. John Dene had burst into the room with the force
of a cyclone, and stood before him like an accusing fury.

"Nine dollars a week! What girl?" he stuttered, looking up weakly into
John Dene's angry eyes. "I--I----"

"Miss West," was the retort. "She's getting nine dollars a week, less
than I pay an office boy in T'ronto."

"But I--it's nothing to do with me," began Mr. Blair miserably. He had
become mortally afraid of John Dene, and prayed for the time to come
when the Hun submarine menace would be ended, and John Dene could
return to Toronto, where no doubt he was understood and appreciated.

"Well, it ought to be," snapped John Dene, just as Sir Bridgman North
came out of Sir Lyster's room.

"Good morning, Mr. Dene," he cried genially. "What are you doing to
poor Blair?"

John Dene explained his grievance. "I'd pay the difference myself,
just to make you all feel a bit small, only she won't take it from me."

"Well, I think I can promise that the matter shall be put right, and
we'll make Blair take her out to lunch by way of apology, shall we?" he
laughed.

"I'd like to see him ask her," said John Dene grimly