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But an unfortunate query in that direction, addressed to a cynical fellow clerk, who had the exhaustive experience with the immature mustaches of twenty-three, elicited a reply which shocked him. To his indignant protest the young man continued:–

“Look here; a girl like that who draws money regularly from some man who doesn’t show up by name, who comes for it herself, and hasn’t any address, and calls herself ‘Avondale’–only an innocent from Dutch Flat, like you, would swallow.”

“Impossible,” said Randolph indignantly. “Anybody could see she’s a lady by her dress and bearing.”

“Dress and bearing!” echoed the clerk, with the derision of blase youth. “If that’s your test, you ought to see Florry —-.”

But here one may safely leave the young gentleman as abruptly as Randolph did. Yet a drop of this corrosive criticism irritated his sensitiveness, and it was not until he recalled his last meeting with her and her innocent escort that he was himself again. Fortunately, he did not relate it to the critic, who would in all probability have added a precocious motherhood to the young lady’s possible qualities.

He could now only look forward to her reappearance at the bank, and here he was destined to a more serious disappointment. For when she made her customary appearance at the counter, he noticed a certain businesslike gravity in the paying teller’s reception of her, and that he was consulting a small register before him instead of handing her the usual receipt form. “Perhaps you are unaware, Miss Avondale, that your account is overdrawn,” Randolph distinctly heard him say, although in a politely lowered voice.

The young girl stopped in taking off her glove; her delicate face expressed her wonder, and paled slightly; she cast a quick and apparently involuntary glance in the direction of Randolph, but said quietly,–

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I thought you did not–ladies so seldom do,” continued the paying teller suavely. “But there are no funds to your credit. Has not your banker or correspondent advised you?”

The girl evidently did not comprehend. “I have no correspondent or banker,” she said. “I mean–I have heard nothing.”

“The original credit was opened from Callao,” continued the official, “but since then it has been added to by drafts from Melbourne. There may be one nearly due now.”

The young girl seemed scarcely to comprehend, yet her face remained pale and thoughtful. It was not until the paying teller resumed with suggestive politeness that she roused herself: “If you would like to see the president, he might oblige you until you hear from your friends. Of course, my duty is simply to”–

“I don’t think I require you to exceed it,” returned the young girl quietly, “or that I wish to see the president.” Her delicate little face was quite set with resolution and a mature dignity, albeit it was still pale, as she drew away from the counter.

“If you would leave your address,” continued the official with persistent politeness, “we could advise you of any later deposit to your credit.”

“It is hardly necessary,” returned the young lady. “I should learn it myself, and call again. Thank you. Good-morning.” And settling her veil over her face, she quietly passed out.

The pain and indignation with which Randolph overheard this colloquy he could with the greatest difficulty conceal. For one wild moment he had thought of calling her back while he made a personal appeal to Revelstoke; but the conviction borne in upon him by her resolute bearing that she would refuse it, and he would only lay himself open to another rebuff, held him to his seat. Yet he could not entirely repress his youthful indignation.

“Where I come from,” he said in an audible voice to his neighbor, “a young lady like that would have been spared this public disappointment. A dozen men would have made up that sum and let her go without knowing anything about her account being overdrawn.” And he really believed it.