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She paused. Surely he must–Why, a sea-anemone would be torn with jealousy at such a tale.

Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it. Thought it very kind of the young fellow. Didn’t blame him for being struck by the whiteness of her hands. Touched on the history of soap, which he happened to have been reading up in the encyclopedia at the free library. And behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that Maud stayed awake half the night, crying.

* * * * *

If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours there would have been no need for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on the following day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was not imaginary–a Lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry with that air of having bought most of the neighbouring property which belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the Stock Exchange, and American professional pugilists.

Mr ‘Skipper’ Shute belonged to the last-named of the three classes. He had arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holding a conference at eight-stone four with one Joseph Edwardes, to settle a question of superiority at that weight which had been vexing the sporting public of two countries for over a year. Having successfully out-argued Mr Edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in the clinches, he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall tour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of these things he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, and with Mr Skipper Shute in particular. And when Mr Shute was pleased with himself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest.

He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and, having cast an experienced eye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed, ‘Go the limit, kid.’

At any other time Maud might have resented being addressed as ‘kid’ by a customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slight thickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr Shute bore no outward signs of his profession. And being, to use his own phrase, a ‘swell dresser’, he was really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maud needed. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancient fire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr Shute that it must be fanned.

She smiled upon Mr Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if it were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully did she toil that she was still busy when Arthur, taking off his apron and putting on his hat, went out for his twenty-minutes’ lunch, leaving them alone together.

The door had scarcely shut when Mr Shute bent forward.

‘Say!’

He sank his voice to a winning whisper.

‘You look good to muh,’ he said, gallantly.

‘The idea!’ said Maud, tossing her head.

‘On the level,’ Mr Shute assured her.

Maud laid down her orange-sticks.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘There–I’ve finished.’

‘I’ve not,’ said Mr Shute. ‘Not by a mile. Say!’

‘Well?’

‘What do you do with your evenings?’

‘I go home.’

‘Sure. But when you don’t? It’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Don’t you ever whoop it up?’

‘Whoop it up?’

‘The mad whirl,’ explained Mr Shute. ‘Ice-cream soda and buck-wheat cakes, and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park.’

‘I don’t know where Luna Park is.’

‘What did they teach you at school? It’s out in that direction,’ said Mr Shute, pointing over his shoulder. ‘You go straight on about three thousand miles till you hit little old New York; then you turn to the right. Say, don’t you ever get a little treat? Why not come along to the White City some old evening? This evening?’