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 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 laud 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 buckwheat 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?"

"Mr. Welsh is taking me to the White City to-night."

"And who's Mr. Welsh?"

"The gentleman who has just gone out."

"Is that so? Well, he doesn't look like a live one, but maybe it's just because he's had bad news to-day. You never can tell." He rose. "Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again; so keep a stout heart."

And, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr. Shute departed, leaving Maud to her thoughts.

She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr. Shute had lowered with ease the record for gay badinage, hitherto held by the red-faced customer; yet to all appearances there had been no change in Arthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), and she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr. Shute, an unbiased spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on her work She hoped for the best.

Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was undeniable cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His light-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commented upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he had touched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with her listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the world.

Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy the evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been—yes, flirting with another man right before his very eyes. What right had he to be cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation—a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good temper and then forgiven—all this at great length—for having been in a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.

She trembled.

"Cold?" said Arthur. "Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now. Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good