just the throat of Lady Anastasia--sloping down
into shoulders that are really rather shapely. Only how can anything on
earth look shapely under the sort of blouse that Aunt Anastasia gets for
me? Or the sort of serge skirt? Or the shoes?

I glanced down at those four-and-elevenpenny canvas abominations that
were still sopping from the gardening hose, and I said with fervour: "If
I had money, I'd have three pairs of new shoes for every day in the
week. And each pair should cost as much as all my clothes have cost this
year!"

"Fancy that, now. That's not the kind of thing as I'd care for myself.
Extravagant--that's a thing I couldn't be," declared Million, in her
cheerful, matter-of-fact little voice, sweeping up the hearth as she
spoke. "Legacies and rolling in money--and a maid to myself, and bein'
called 'Miss Million,' and all that. That 'ud never be my wish!"

"What was your wish, then?" I asked, beginning to tear up the crisp
leaves of the lettuce into the glass salad-bowl. "I've told you mine,
Million. Tell me yours."

"Sure, you won't let on to any one if I do?" returned our little maid,
putting her black, white-capped head on one side like a little bird.
"Sure you won't go and make game of me afterwards to your Aunt
Nasturtium--oh, lor'. Hark at me, now!--to Miss Lovelace, I mean? If
there's one thing that does make me feel queer it's thinking folks are
making game of me."

"I promise I won't. Tell me the wish!"

Million laughed again, coloured, twiddled her apron. Then, leaning over
the deal table towards me, she murmured unexpectedly and bashfully: "I
always wish that I could marry a gentleman!"

"A gentleman?" I echoed, rather taken aback.

"Of course, I know," explained Million, "that a young girl in my walk of
life has plenty of chances of getting married. Not like a young lady in
yours, Miss. Without a young lady like you has plenty of money there's a
very poor choice of husbands!"

"There is, indeed," I sighed.

The little maid went on: "So I could have some sort of young man any
day, Miss Beatrice. There's the postman here--very inclined to be
friendly--not to mention the policeman. And the young man who used to
come round to attend to the gas at the Orphanage when I was there. He
writes to me still."

"And do you write back to him?"

"Picture postcards of Richmond Park. That's all he's ever had from me.
He's not the sort of young man I'd like. You see, Miss, I've seen other
sorts," said