"By Jove!" exclaimed de Bosky, his eyes dancing. "But," he added, doubtfully, "what am I to do if he doesn't approve?"
"Tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the resourceful Mr. Trotter.
"You know," said the other admiringly, "I have never been one of those misguided persons who claim that the English have no sense of humour. I—"
"Sh!" warned M. Mirabeau from the top of the steps. And then, like a true Frenchman, he bustled de Bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door, leaving Trotter alone among the ticking clocks.
Jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued. Mr. Bramble was pledging something, in a squeaky undertone, from the store below.
"He may not have followed me," Jane called back in guarded tones, "but if he has, Mr. Bramble, you must be sure to throw him off the trail."
"Trust me,—trust me implicitly," came in a strangled sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor.
"Oh,—Eric, dearest! How you startled me!" cried Lady Jane a moment later. She gasped the words, for she was almost smothered in the arms of her lover.
"Forgive me," he murmured, without releasing her,—an oversight which she apparently had no immediate intention of resenting.
A little later on, she suddenly drew away from him, with a quick, embarrassed glance around the noisy little shop. He laughed.
"We are quite alone, Jane dear,—unless you count the clocks. They're all looking at us, but they never
