Of course, I talk a great deal," she pursued in an aggrieved, explanatory tone to Gabriella, "but I never repeat a word--not a single word that is told me in confidence.

If Julia had asked me not to tell Gabriella what she said, I shouldn't have dreamed of doing so." "Oh, it doesn't matter in the least, Mrs.Spencer," said Gabriella hastily, "only there isn't a word of truth in it." The becoming flush was still in her cheeks, and she poised a hat over Florrie's head with a swift, flying grace which Mrs.Spencer had never noticed in her before.

"I wonder if Gabriella can really care about George ?" she thought quickly.

"But if it is George she is in love with, why on earth did she start to work in a shop ?" Then suddenly, following a flash of light, she reasoned it out to her complete satisfaction.

"It must have been that she didn't know that George cared--that is why she is blushing so at this minute." An hour or so later, when Florrie and her mother had fluttered volubly downstairs, and the exhausted assistants were putting the hats away before closing the cases, Gabriella went into the dressing-room, where Miss Nash, a stout, pleasant-looking girl, was sitting in a broken chair, with her shoes off, her blue serge skirt rolled back from her knees, and her head bowed, over her crossed arms, on the window-sill.
At Gabriella's entrance she glanced up, and remarked cheerfully: "My feet were killing me.