o fill all them, I
don't s'pose."

"Won't you!" I said. "We go shopping again this very afternoon; shopping
clothes! And the question is whether we've got enough boxes to hold
them!"

"Miss!" breathed Million.

I turned from the tray, full of attractively arranged little boxes and
shelves, of the dress-basket. Quite sharply I said: "How often am I to
tell you not to call me that?"

"Very sorry, Miss Beatrice. I mean--S--Smith!" faltered Million. Her
pretty grey eyes were full of tears. Her small, bonnie face looked
suddenly pinched and pale. She sat down with a dump on the edge of the
big brass bedstead. Very forlorn, she looked, the little heiress.

"Sorry I was cross," I said penitently, patting my employer's hand.

"It's not that, Miss," said Million, relapsing again, "it's only--oh,
haven't you got a sinkin'? I feel fair famished, I do; indeed, what with
all the going about, and----"

"I'm awfully hungry, too," I admitted. "We'll go down to the dining-room
at once. Come along. You go first. You are to!"

"Not to the dining-room here," objected Million, terrified. "Not in this
grand place, with all these people. Oh, Miss, did you notice that young
gentleman, him with the red rose, and all the ladies in their lovely
dresses? I'd far rather just nip out and get a portion of
steak-and-kidney pie and a nice cupper tea at an A.B.C. There is bound
to be one close by here----"

"Well, we aren't going to it," I decreed firmly. "Ladies with private
incomes of a hundred and fifty pounds a week don't lunch at
marble-topped tables. Anyhow, their maids won't. But if you don't want
to have luncheon here the first day, perhaps----"

"I don't; oh, not me. I couldn't get anything down, I know I couldn't,
and all these people dressed up so grand, looking at me! (Did you see
her with the cerise feather in her hat that the young gentleman called
'facie'?) Oh, lor'!" The grey eyes filled again.

So I made a compromise and said we would lunch out somewhere else; a
good restaurant was near, where you do at least get a table-cloth. In
the hall we saw again the young man who had driven up in the
four-in-hand. He was talking to one of the porters, and his broad,
black-and-white check back was towards us. I heard what he was saying,
in a deep voice with a soft burr of Irish brogue in it--

"--with all those lashins of new trunks?... Million?... Will she have
anything to do with the Chicago Million, the Sausage King, as they ca