ter Agency." Aubrey's heart
sank. He had feared a catastrophe of this kind from the first.
Naturally a hard-headed business man would not care to entrust such
vast interests to a firm whose young men went careering about like
secret service agents, hunting for spies, eavesdropping in alleys, and
accusing people of pro-germanism. Business, Aubrey said to himself, is
built upon Confidence, and what confidence could Mr. Chapman have in
such vagabond and romantic doings? Still, he felt that he had done
nothing to be ashamed of.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "We have tried to give you service. I
assure you that I've spent by far the larger part of my time at the
office in working up plans for your campaigns."

He could not bear to look at Titania, ashamed that she should be the
witness of his humiliation.

"That's exactly it," said Mr. Chapman. "I don't want just the larger
part of your time. I want all of it. I want you to accept the
position of assistant advertising manager of the Daintybits
Corporation."

They all cheered, and for the third time that evening Aubrey felt more
overwhelmed than any good advertising man is accustomed to feel. He
tried to express his delight, and then added:

"I think it's my turn to propose a toast. I give you the health of Mr.
and Mrs. Mifflin, and their Haunted Bookshop, the place where I
first--I first----"

His courage failed him, and he concluded, "First learned the meaning of
literature."

"Suppose we adjourn to the den," said Helen. "We have so many
delightful things to talk over, and I know Roger wants to tell you all
about the improvements he is planning for the shop."

Aubrey lingered to be the last, and it is to be conjectured that
Titania did not drop her handkerchief merely by accident. The others
had already crossed the hall into the sitting room.

Their eyes met, and Aubrey could feel himself drowned in her steady,
honest gaze. He was tortured by the bliss of being so near her, and
alone. The rest of the world seemed to shred away and leave them
standing in that little island of light where the tablecloth gleamed
under the lamp.

In his hand he clutched the precious book. Out of all the thousand
things he thought, there was only one he dared to say.

"Will you write my name in it?"

"I'd love to," she said, a little shakily, for she, too, was strangely
alarmed at certain throbbings.

He gave her his pen, and she sat down at the table. She wrote q