perhaps towards evening, Peter, looking up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair of reproving black eyes, their severity counterbalanced by a pair of full red lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that only one pinch would be permitted, would dip deeply.

“I want her,” said Peter Hope, feeling with his snuff-box in his hand more confidence in his own judgment, “to be a sensible, clever woman, capable of earning her own living and of being independent; not a mere helpless doll, crying for some man to come and take care of her.”

“A woman’s business,” asserted Clodd, “is to be taken care of.”

“Some women, perhaps,” admitted Peter; “but Tommy, you know very well, is not going to be the ordinary type of woman. She has brains; she will make her way in the world.”

“It doesn’t depend upon brains,” said Clodd. “She hasn’t got the elbows.”

“The elbows?”

“They are not sharp enough. The last ’bus home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy’s the sort to get left on the kerb.”

“She’s the sort,” retorted Peter, “to make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. Don’t you bully me!” Peter sniffed self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger.

“Yes, I shall,” Clodd told him, “on this particular point. The poor girl’s got no mother.”

Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment to admit the subject of discussion.

“Got that Daisy Blossom advertisement out of old Blatchley,” announced Tommy, waving triumphantly a piece of paper over her head.

“No!” exclaimed Peter. “How did you manage it?”

“Asked him for it,” was Tommy’s explanation.

“Very odd,” mused Peter; “asked the old idiot for it myself only last week. He refused it point-blank.”

Clodd snorted reproof. “You know I don’t like your doing that sort of thing. It isn’t proper for a young girl——”

“It’s all right,” assured him Tommy; “he’s bald!”

“That makes no difference,” was Clodd’s opinion.

“Yes it does,” was Tommy’s. “I like them bald.”

Tommy took Peter’s head between her hands and kissed it, and in doing so noticed the tell-tale specks of snuff.

“Just a pinch, my dear,” explained Peter, “the merest pinch.”

Tommy took up the snuff-box from the desk. “I’ll show you where I’m going to put it this time.” She put it in her pocket. Peter’s face fell.

“What do you think of it?” said Clodd. He led her to the corner. “Good idea, ain’t it?”

“Why, where’s the piano?” demanded Tommy.