gh; and Miss Bishop began reading to herself in
ostentatious silence, till the provocations of the page grew
irresistible.

"Look here, Floss," she said excitedly. "Look at _me_. 'Fawn will be
the pree-vyling colour this year, and for morning wear a plain
tailor-myde costume in palest fawn is, for 'er who can stand it, most
undeniably _chic_.'" Hitherto Miss Bishop had avoided that word (which
she pronounced "chick") whenever she met it; but now, in its thrilling
connection with the fawn-coloured costume, it was brought home to her
in a peculiarly personal manner, and she pondered. "I wish I knew what
that word meant. It's always coming up in my magazine."

"I think," said Flossie, "it means something like smart. Stylish, you
know."

Young Sidney leapt suddenly from his seat. "Go it, Flossie! Give us
the French for a nice little cup er tea."

"Really, it's too bad we can't have a plyce to ourselves where we can
talk. I'm going." And as Miss Bishop went she still pondered Flossie's
rendering of the word _chic_. Little did any of them know what grave
issues were to hang on it.

Then Mr. Spinks emerged from his hiding-place. "Miss Walker," he said
(he considered it more honourable to call her Miss Walker now whenever
he could think of it; only he couldn't always think), "I didn't know
you knew the French language."

"And why shouldn't I know it as well as other people?"

"I expect you know it a jolly sight better. Do you think, now, you
could read and write it easily?"

"I might," said Flossie guardedly, "if I had a little practice."

"Because, if you could--You say your're tired of the Bank?"

"I should think I _was_ tired of it."

"Well, Flossie, do you know, a good typewriter girl who can read and
write French can get twice as much as you're getting."

"How do you know?"

"Girl I know told me so. She's corresponding clerk for a big firm of
wine merchants in the City. She's going to be married this autumn; and
if you looked sharp, you might get her berth."

"In a wine-merchant's shop? Mr. Rickman wouldn't hear of it."

"It isn't a shop, you know, it's an office. You ask him."

Flossie did not ask him; she knew a trick worth two of that. But not
very long after Mr. Spinks had made his suggestion, finding Keith very
snug in his study one evening, reading Anatole France, to his immense
delight she whispered into his ear a little shy request that some day,
when he wasn't busy, he would help her a bit with