Mrs. Thompson. W. B. Maxwell

bureau, looking like a great general; Mr. Mears, at her side, looked like a glum aide-de-camp; the young man looked like a soldier who had been beckoned to step forward from the ranks. He stood at a respectful distance, and his bearing was quite soldierlike—heels together, head well up, the broad shoulders very square, and the muscular back straight and flat. His eyes were on the general's face.

      Sandy, freckled Miss Woolfrey merely looked foolish and frightened. She caught her breath and coughed when Mrs. Thompson informed her that Mr. Marsden was to be put in charge of the whole department.

      "Over my head, ma'am?"

      "It will make no difference to you. Your salary will be no less. And yours, Mr. Marsden, will be no more. But you will have fuller scope."

      Miss Woolfrey feebly protested. She had hoped,—she had naturally hoped;—in a customary shop-succession the post should be hers.

      "Miss Woolfrey, do you feel yourself competent to fill it? Hitherto you have been under the constant supervision of Mr. Mears. But do you honestly feel you could stand alone?"

      "I'd do my best, ma'am."

      "Yes," said Mrs. Thompson cordially, "I'm sure you would. But with the best will in the world, there are limits to one's capacity. I have come to the conclusion that this is a man's task;" and she turned to the fortunate salesman. "Mr. Marsden, you will not in any way interfere with Miss Woolfrey—but you will remember that the department is now in your sole charge. If I have to complain, it will be to you. If things go wrong, it is you that I shall call to account."

      Nothing went wrong in China and Glass. But sometimes Mrs. Thompson secretly asked herself if she or Mears had been right. Had she acted wisely when pushing an untried man so promptly to the front?

      During these pleasant if enervating months of May and June she watched him closely.

      Somehow he took liberties. It was difficult to define. He talked humbly. His voice was always humble, and his words too—but his eyes were bold. Something of aggressive virility seemed to meet and attempt to beat down that long-assumed mastership to which everyone else readily submitted. In the shop she was a man by courtesy—the boss, the cock of the walk; and she was never made to remember, when issuing orders to the men who served her, that she was not really and truly male.

      All this might be fancy; but it made a slight want of ease and comfort in her intercourse with Mr. Marsden—a necessity felt only with him, an instinct telling her that here was a servant who must be kept in his place.

      Once or twice, when she was examining returns with him, his assiduous attention bothered her.

      "Thank you, Mr. Marsden, I can see it for myself."

      And there was a certain look in his eyes while he talked to her—respectfully admiring, pensively questioning, familiar,—no, not to be analysed. But nevertheless it was a look that she did not at all care about.

      The eyes that he used so hardily were of a lightish brown, speckled with darker colour; and above them the dark eyebrows grew close together, making almost an unbroken line across his brow. She saw or guessed that his beard would be tawny, if he let it grow; but he was always beautifully shaved. High on his cheeks there were tiny russet hairs, like down, that he never touched with the razor.

      All through May China and Glass did better and better. Miss Woolfrey, meekly submitting to fate, worked loyally under the new chief. "If anyone had to be put above me," said poor Miss Woolfrey, "I'd rather it was him."

      When a truly excellent week's returns were shown in June, Mrs. Thompson took an opportunity of praising Mr. Marsden generously. And again, after he had bowed and expressed his gratification, she saw the look that she did not care about.

      She read it differently now. It was probably directly traceable to the arrogance bred of youth and strength—and perhaps a fairly full measure of personal conceit. Although so circumspect with the other sex, he had a reliance on his handsome aspect. Perhaps unconsciously he was always falling back on this—because hitherto it might never have failed him.

      It was Enid who made her think him handsome. Till Enid used the word, she would have thought it too big.

      One morning she had brought her daughter to the China department in order to select a wedding-present for a girlfriend. Miss Woolfrey was serving her, but Mr. Marsden came to assist. Then Mrs. Thompson saw how he looked at Enid.

      Some sort of introduction had been made—"Enid, my dear, Mr. Marsden suggests this vase;" and the girl had immediately transferred her attention from the insipid serving woman to the resourceful serving-man. Mr. Marsden showed her more and more things—"This is good value. Two guineas—if that is not beyond your figure. Or this is a quaint notion—Parrots! They paint them so natural, don't they?" And Mrs. Thompson saw the look, and winced. With his eyes on the girl's face, he smiled—and Enid began to smile, too.

      "What is the joke, Mr. Marsden?" Mrs. Thompson had spoken coldly and abruptly.

      "Joke?" he echoed.

      "You appear to be diverted by the idea of my daughter's purchase—when really it is simply a matter of business."

      "Exactly—but if I can save you time by—"

      "Thank you, Miss Woolfrey is quite competent to show us all that we require;" and Mrs. Thompson turned her broad back on the departmental manager.

      Enid, when leaving China and Glass, glanced behind her, and nodded to Mr. Marsden.

      "Mother," she whispered, "how handsome he is.... But how sharply you spoke to him. You quite dropped on him."

      "Well, my dear, one has to drop on people sometimes; and Mr. Marsden is just a little disposed to be pushing."

      "Oh," said Enid, "I thought he was such a favourite of yours."

      Alone in her room, Mrs. Thompson felt worried. A thought had made her wince. This young man carried about with him an element of vague danger. Of course Enid would never be foolish; and he would never dare to aspire to such a prize; still Enid should get her next wedding present in another department—or in another shop, if she must have china.

      It was only a brief sense of annoyance or discomfort, say five minutes lost in a busy day. Mrs. Thompson dismissed it from her mind. But Mr. Marsden brought it back again.

      Towards closing time, when she was signing letters at the big bureau, he came behind the glass and entered her room.

      "What is it?" said Mrs. Thompson, without looking up.

      "Mrs. Thompson, I want to make an apology and a request."

      At the sound of his voice she perceptibly started. His presence down here was unusual and unexpected.

      "I have been making myself rather unhappy about what happened when you and Miss Thompson were in my department."

      "Nothing happened," said Mrs. Thompson decisively.

      "Oh, yes, ma'am, and I offer an apology for my mistake."

      "Mr. Marsden," said Mrs. Thompson, with dignity, "there is not the slightest occasion for an apology. Please don't make mountains out of molehills."

      "No—but I am in earnest. It is your own great kindness that led me to forget. And I confess that I did for a moment forget the immense difference of social station that lies between us. A shopman should never speak to his employer—much less his employer's relatives—in a tone implying the least friendliness or equality."

      "Mr. Marsden, you quite misunderstand."

      "You were angry with me?"

      "No," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "To be frank, I was not exactly pleased with you—and I took the liberty of showing it. That is a freedom to which I am accustomed."

      "Then I humbly apologise."

      "I have told you it is unnecessary.... That will do, Mr. Marsden;" and she took