“Oh, splendidly!” cried Hermione, flushing with sisterly pride, “they’ve promised him a raise next month.”

“What, already?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, cutting viciously into a potato. “If he don’t watch out, they’ll be makin’ him a partner next.”

“Oh, Ann, I wish you were not quite so—so hard on him!” sighed Hermione. “Remember, he’s only a boy!”

“You were a woman at his age, earning enough t’ keep ye both—but there! I don’t mean t’ be hard, Hermy; anyway, a man’s never much good till he’s growed up, and then only because some woman teaches him how t’ be.”

“What do you say to that, Mr. Geoffrey?” enquired Hermione, pausing, flour-dredger in hand, to glance at him slily under her brows.

“I think Mrs. Trapes is a wonderful woman,” he answered.

“Ah, now, Mr. Geoffrey, quit y’r jollying,” said Mrs. Trapes, smiling at the potato.

“Mrs. Trapes has taught me much wisdom already and, among other things, that I shall never be or do anything worth the while without the aid of a woman—”

“Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, I never remember sayin’ no sich thing!”

“Not in so many words, perhaps, but you implied it, Mrs. Trapes.”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Trapes dubiously.

“Consequently, I mean to ask that woman—on the very first opportunity, Miss Hermione.” Seeing that Hermione was silent, all her attention being centred in the dough her white fists were kneading, Mrs. Trapes spoke instead.

“D’ ye mean as you want some one t’ look after you—to sew an’ cook an’ wash an’ sew buttons on for ye—I know the sort!”

“I certainly do, and—”

“Ah, it’s a slave you want, Mr. Geoffrey, and peanut men don’t have slaves—not unless they marries ‘em, and a woman as would marry a peanut man has only herself t’ blame—peanuts!”

Hermione laughed, reached for the rolling-pin, and immediately fell to work with it, her head stooped rather lower than was necessary. As for Ravenslee, he lounged in his chair, watching the play of those round, white arms.

“But why the kidneys, Hermy? You’ve got to cut out luxuries now, my dear—we all have, I guess; it’ll be dry bread next, I reckon.”

“Why so?” enquired Ravenslee lazily.

“Why?” cried Mrs. Trapes bitterly, “I’ll tell you why—because me an’ Hermy an’ every one else is bein’ squeezed dry t’ fill the pockets of a thing as calls itself a man—a thievin’ beast on two legs as is suckin’ our blood, gnawin’ our flesh, grindin’ the life out of us—a great fat man as is treadin’ us down under his great boots, down an’ down to slavery—death—an’ worse—it’s such men as him as keeps the flames of hell goin’—fat frizzles well, an’ so will Mulligan, I hope!”

“Mulligan?” enquired Ravenslee.

“He’s raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey,” sighed Hermione.

“Raised the rents?” said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge.

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly. “I guess he thinks we live too easy an’ luxoorious, so he’s boosted it up a dollar per. A dollar a week don’t sound a whole lot, p’raps, but it sure takes some gettin’; folks expects a deal o’ scrubbin’ an’ sewin’ an’ slavin’ for a dollar—yes, sir.”

“We shall have to work a little harder, that’s all, Ann dear.”

“Harder? I guess you work hard enough for two—an’ who gets the benefit? Why, Mulligan does. Oh, it’s a great comfort t’ remember the flames of hell, sometimes. Lord, when I think how we have t’ slave t’ make enough t’ live—”

“There are others worse than us, Ann.”

“Why, yes, there’s poor Mrs. Finlay; she’s got to go, an’ her husband paralysed! There’s little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t’ keep her home together—she’s got to go. There’s Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—but there, who cares for the likes o’ them—who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? An’ what might you be dreamin’ over this time?” she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee’s long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed.

“I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—if we only would take the trouble to look for it!” he answered. “The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—damnably thick—er—pardon me, I—er nearly got excited.”

“Excited?” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “I’d pay good money t’ see you like that!”

“You see, I had an idea—a rather original idea!”

“Then take care of it, Mr. Geoffrey; nurse it careful, and we’ll have ye doin’ bigger things than push a peanut barrer—peanuts!”

“Mrs. Trapes, I’ve got a stranglehold on that idea, for it is rather brilliant.”

“There’s that kettle b’ilin’ at last, thank goodness!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, crossing to the stove, “tea’s a luxury, I suppose, but—oh, drat Mulligan, anyway!”

So Mrs. Trapes brewed the tea, while Ravenslee gazed at Hermione again, at her shapely arms, her dimpled elbows, her preoccupied face—a face so serenely, so utterly unaware of his regard, of course, until he chanced to look away, and then—Hermione stole a glance at him.

“There, my dear,” said Mrs. Trapes after a while, “there’s a cup o’ tea as is a cup o’ tea, brewed jest on the b’ile, in a hot pot, and drawed to perfection! Set right down an’ drink it, slow an’ deliberate. Tea ain’t meant to be swallowed down careless, like a man does his beer! An’ why?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, as they sipped the fragrant beverage, all three, “why ain’t you out with your precious—peanuts, Mr. Geoffrey?”

Ravenslee set down his cup and turned to Hermione.

“Mrs. Trapes has told you, I think, that I am become—er—an itinerant vendor of the ubiquitous peanut—”

“Mr. Geoffrey!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, gulping a mouthful of hot tea and blinking, “I never did! Never in all my days would I allow myself such expressions—Mr. Geoffrey, I’m ashamed at you! An’ that reminds me—it was chicken fricassee, wasn’t it? For your supper, I mean?”

“I believe it was.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Trapes, rising, “I’ll go an’ buy it. Was you wantin’ anything fetched, Hermy?”

“If you wouldn’t mind bringing a bunch of asparagus—”

“Sparrergrass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes in horror-struck tones, “why, it’s anywhere from thirty to sixty cents—”

“But Arthur loves it, dear, and now that he’s working so hard—”

“Arthur likes!” cried Mrs. Trapes indignantly. “Mr. Geoffrey, it’s been Arthur ever since he was born, an’ her scrinchin’ an’ pinchin’ herself for the sake o’ that b’y. O’ course he likes sparrergrass—so do I—but I make shift with pertatoes or cabbidge or carrots—an’ so should he. Come now, Hermy, you take a bunch o’ carrots instead; carrots is healthy an’ cheap! Come now, is that sparrergrass to be carrots or not?”

“Ann, that asparagus is to be—asparagus!”

“Such wicked extravagance, an’ all for that b’y. Hermy, I’m surprised at ye!”

For a long moment after Mrs. Trapes had departed there was silence, while Ravenslee sat gazing where Hermione stood busy at her pastry again.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” said she at last, “I want to thank you for watching over my boy. Arthur told me how good you were to him while I was away. I want you to know how grateful I am—”

“What beautiful hands you have, Hermione—and I shall dream of your arms.”

“My arms?” she repeated, staring.

“They’re so—smooth and white—”

“Oh, that’s flour!” said she, bending over the table.

“And so—round—”

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey! Can’t you find something else to talk about?”

“Why, of course,” he answered, “there are your feet, so slender and shapely—”

“In these frightful old shoes!” she added.

“Worn out mostly in other peoples’ service,” he nodded. “God bless them!”

“They let the wet in horribly when it rains!” she sighed.

“So heaven send us dry weather! Then there is your wonderful hair,” he continued, “so long and soft and—”

“And all bunched up anyhow!” said she, touching the heavy, shining braids with tentative fingers. “Please don’t say any more, Mr. Geoffrey, because I just know I look a sight—I feel it! And in this old gown too—it’s the one I keep to scrub the floors in—”

“Scrub the floors?” he repeated.

“Why, of course, floors must be scrubbed, and I’ve had plenty—oh, plenty of experience—now what are you thinking?”

“That a great many women might envy you that gown for the beauty that goes with it. You are very beautiful, you know, Hermione.”

“And beauty in a woman is—everything, isn’t it?” she said a little bitterly and with head suddenly averted.

“Have I offended you?”

“No,” she answered without looking around, “only sometimes you are so very—personal.”

“Because the First and Second Persons Singular Number are the most interesting persons in the world, and—Hermione, in all this big world there is only one person I want. Could you ever learn to love a peanut man?”

“That would all depend—on the peanut man,” she answered softly, “and you—you don’t talk or act a little bit like a real peanut man.”

“Well, could you stoop to love this peanut man just as he is, with all his faults and failures, love him enough to trust yourself to his keeping, to follow him into the unknown, to help him find that Beautiful City of Perhaps—could you, Hermione?” As he ended he rose to his feet, but swiftly, dexterously, she eluded him.

“Wait!” she pleaded, facing him across the table, “I—I want to talk to you—to ask you some questions, and I want you to be serious, please.”

“Solemn as sixty judges!” he nodded.

“Well, first, Mr. Geoffrey—why do you pretend to sell peanuts?”

“Pretend!” he repeated, trying to sound aggrieved.

“Oh, I’m not blind, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“No, indeed—I think your eyes are the most beau—”

“Oh, please, please be serious!”

“As a dozen owls!”

“I—I know,” she went on quickly, “I’m sure you haven’t always had to live in such—such places as Mulligan’s. I know you don’t belong here as I do. Is it necessity has driven you to live here or only—curiosity?”

“Well—er—perhaps a little of both,” he admitted.

“Then you’re not obliged to sell peanuts for a living?”

“‘Obliged’ is scarcely the word, perhaps; let us call it a peanut penchant, a hobby, a—”

“You are not quite so—poverty-stricken as you pretend?” Her voice was very soft and gentle, but she kept her head averted, also her foot was tapping nervously in its worn shoe.

“Oh, as to money,” he answered, “I have enough for my simple needs, but in every other sense I am a miserable pauper. You see, there are some things no money can buy, and they are generally the best things of life.”

“And so,” said she, interrupting him gently, “you come here to Mulligan’s, you deceive every one into thinking you are very poor, you make a pretence of selling peanuts and push a barrow through the streets—why?”

“First, because pushing a barrow is—er—very healthy exercise.”

“Yes, Mr. Geoffrey?” she said in the same soft voice.

“And second,” he continued, wishing he could see her face, “second, because I find it—er, well—highly amusing.”

“Amusing!” she cried, turning suddenly, her eyes very bright and her cheeks hot and anger-flushed. “Amusing!” she repeated, “ah, yes—that’s just it—it’s all only a joke to you, to be done with when it grows tiresome. But my life here—our life is very real—ah, terribly real, and has been—sordid sometimes. What is only sport to you for a little while is deadly earnest to me; you are only playing at poverty, but I must live it—”

“And thirdly,” he continued gently, “because I love you, Hermione!”

“Love me!” she repeated, shaking her head. “Ah, no, no—your world is not my world nor ever could be.”

“Why, then, your world shall be mine.”

“Yes, but for how long?” she demanded feverishly. “I wonder how long you could endure this world of mine? I have had to work and slave all my life, but you—look at your hands, so white and well-cared for—yours are not the hands of a worker!”

“No, I’m afraid they’re not!” he admitted a little ruefully.

“Now look at mine—see my fingers all roughened by my needle.”

“Such busy, capable hands!” said he, drawing a pace nearer, “hands always working for others, so strong to help the distressed. I love and honour them more just because of those work-roughened fingers.” As he spoke he reached out very suddenly, and clasping those slender hands, stooped and kissed them reverently. Now, glancing up, he beheld her red lips quivering while her eyes were suffused all at once, as, drooping her head, she strove to loose his hold.

“Let me go!” she whispered, “I—I—ah, let me go!”

“Hermione,” he breathed, “oh, Hermione, how beautiful you are!” But at this she cried out almost as if he had struck her and, wrenching her hands free, covered her face.