he tall Effect in brown thought a lot of
herself and was putting on airs. Her seeming to imply that she might
be considered ridiculous inclined censors to leniency.

"Have a spruce cream?" asked a girl in front, screwing her head round
to see what the Effect was like, and offering a small, flat object
about an inch in width and two in length.

"Thank you very much," said Win.

Every one near tittered good-naturedly. Perhaps it was that accent
again! Funny, thought Win. Her idea had been that Americans had an
accent, because they didn't talk like English people who had invented
the language. Americans appeared to think it was the other way round!

She put the flat thing into her mouth and began to chew it. At first
it was very nice; sugary, with a fresh, woodsy flavour which was new
to her. Presently, however, the sweetness and some of the taste melted
away, and instead of dissolving, so that she could swallow it, the
substance kept all its bulk and assumed a rubbery texture exactly like
a doll's nose she had once bitten off and never forgotten. She coughed
a little and did not quite know what to do.

"Good heavens', she's goin' to absorb it!" ejaculated the girl in
front, still twisting to gaze at the tall Effect. "Didn't you never
chew gum before?"

"Only millionaires can afford it in my country," said Win, recovering
herself. The laugh was with her! But every sound made was _piano_.
There was the feeling among the mice that this was the cat's house.

The girl in front who had offered the chewing gum was small and just
missed being very pretty. She had curly hair of so light a red that it
was silvery at the roots. Seeing her from behind, you hoped for a
radiant beauty, but she had pale, prominent eyes and a hard mouth. Win
imagined that the muscles in her cheeks were overdeveloped because of
chewing too much gum.

At last the procession had moved on so far that this girl arrived at
the lighted window. Win's heart, which had missed a beat in a sudden
flurry of fear now and then, began to pound like a hammer.

For the first time she could see the god in the machine, the
superintendent of Peter Rolls's vast store, a kind of prime minister
with more power than the king. She had fancied that he would be old, a
man of such importance in a great establishment, a person who had the
nickname of Father. But her anxious gaze, as she carefully kept her
distance, told that he was not even middle-aged. He was, it seemed, a