myself
for the next six months, seeing that of the two quarters' salary that I
asked Miss Million to advance me there remains about five shillings and
sixpence.

But I might give myself a little treat; say, tea in a nice place with a
good band and a picture-gallery first. That might help me to forget, for
an hour or so, the troubles and trials of being the lady's-maid to a
millionairess.

This was why I paid away one of my few remaining shillings at the
turnstile of the Fine Art Society, and sauntered into the small, cool
gallery.

There was rather an amusing picture-show on. Drawings of things that I
myself had been up to my eyes in for the last day or so; the latest
fashions for nineteen-fourteen! Drawings by French artists that made
clothes, fashion-plates, look as fascinating and as bizarre as the most
wonderful orchids. Such curious titles, too, were given to these clever
little pictures of feminine attire: "It is dark in the park"; "A rose
amid the roses."

There was one picture of a simple frock made not unlike Miss Million's
white muslin with the blue sash, but how different frocks painted are
from frocks worn! Or was it that the French manikin in the design knew
how to wear the----

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a voice speaking above my
shoulder, speaking to me:

"Ah! And is this where Miss Million's maid gathers her inspirations for
dressing Miss Million?"

I knew who this was, even before I turned from the pictures to face
what looked like another very modern fashion-plate. A fashion-design for
the attire of a young man about town, the Honourable Jim Burke! So he
wasn't calling on Miss Million again this afternoon, after all! That
ought to be one weight off my mind; and yet it wasn't. I felt curiously
nervous of this man. I don't know why. He raised his glossy hat and
smiled down at me. He spoke in the courteous tone of one enchanted to
meet some old acquaintance. "Good afternoon, Miss Lovelace!"

A maid may not cut her mistress's chosen friends, even on her afternoon
out. I was obliged to say "Good afternoon," which I did in a small and
icy voice. Then, in spite of myself, I heard myself saying: "My name is
Smith."

The Honourable Jim said coolly: "Oh, I think not?"

I said, standing there, all in black, against the gay background of
coloured French drawings: "Smith is the name that I am known by as Miss
Million's maid."

"Exactly," said the big young Irishman gently, looking dow