slums a Christmas din———Say! did you ever wonder where they get the other 364?
Miss McRamsey—beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming, radiant—fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with a little arched opening, fenced her in.
Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring—admiring greatly, and faced the open wicket.
“You look chawming, you know—’pon my word you do—my deah,” he said, beguilingly.
Miss McRamsey whirled around.
“Cut that joshing out,” she said, coolly and briskly. “Who do you think you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!—”
Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond and puzzled whisker.
“Miss McRamsey has fainted,” some one explained.
