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 are now going to wash your face and do your hair, and take me out to dinner—a real eighteenpenny dinner at Roches. I’ll stand treat.”

It was after dinner, as the two girls waited for Milly’s omnibus, that the word of the evening was spoken.

“I do hope you’ll have a good quiet time,” Milly said; “and it really is a good place for work. Poor Edgar did a lot of work there last year. There’s a cabinet with a secret drawer that he said inspired him with mysterious tales, and There’s my ’bus.”

“Why do you say poor Edgar?” Jane asked, smiling lightly.

“Oh, hadn’t you heard? Awfully sad thing. He sailed from New York a fortnight ago. No news of the ship. His mother’s in mourning. I saw her yesterday. Quite broken down. Good-bye. Do take care of yourself, and get well and jolly.”

Jane stood long staring after the swaying bulk of the omnibus, then she drew a deep breath and went home.

Edgar was dead. What a brute Milly was! But, of course, Edgar was nothing to Milly—nothing but a pleasant friend. How slowly people walked in the streets! Jane walked