The Real Charlotte. 12 1 



tion, and the portrayal on the blotting-paper of a profile of 

 a conventionally classic type, which, by virtue of a mous- 

 tache and a cigarette, might be supposed to represent Mr. 

 Hawkins. She did not feel inclined to give further details 

 of her evening, even to Fanny Hemphill. As a matter of 

 fact she had in her own mind pressed the possibilities of her 

 acquaintance with Mr. Hawkins to their utmost limit, and 

 it seemed to her not impossible that soon she might have a 

 good deal more to say on the subject ; but, nevertheless, 

 she could not stifle a certain anxiety as to whether, after all, 

 there would ever be anything definite to tell. Hawkins was 

 more or less an unknown quantity ; his mere idioms and 

 slang were the language of another world. It was easy to 

 diagnose Tommy Whitty or Jimmy Jemmison and their 

 fellows, but this was a totally new experience, and the light 

 of previous flirtations had no illuminating power. She had, 

 at all events, the satisfaction of being sure that on Fanny 

 Hemphill not even the remotest shadow of an allusion 

 would be lost, and that, whatever the future might bring 

 forth, she would be eternally credited with the subjugation 

 of an English officer. 



The profile with the moustache and the cigarette was re- 

 peated several times on the blotting-paper during this inter- 

 val, but not to her satisfaction ; her new bangle pressed its 

 pearly horse-shoes into the whiteness of her wrist and hurt 

 her, and she took it off and laid it on the table. It also, 

 and the circumstances of its bestowal, were among the 

 things that she had not seen fit to mention to the friend of 

 her bosom. It was nothing of course ; of no more signifi- 

 cance than the kiss that had accompanied it, except that she 

 had been glad to have the bangle, and had cared nothing 

 for the kiss ; but that was just what she would never be able 

 to get Fanny Hemphill to believe. 



The soft, clinging tread of bare feet became audible in 

 the hall, and a crack of the dining-room door was opened. 



" Miss Francie," said a voice through the crack, " th' 

 oven's hot." 



" Have you the eggs and everything ready, Eid ? " asked 

 Francie, who was adding a blotted smoke-wreath to the 

 cigarette of the twentieth profile. 



" I have, miss," replied the invisible Bid Sal, " an' Norry 



