She ought to have insisted on their going to a decent shop. The mere advertisement ought to have forewarned her. It was the posters that had captured Mrs. Phillips: those dazzling apartments where bejewelled society reposed upon the “high-class but inexpensive designs” of Mr. Krebs. Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell their talents for such purposes. “Fifteen years,” she answered. “I was a bit older than ’im. But I’ve never looked my age, they tell me. Lord, what a boy ’e was! Swept you off your feet, like. ’E wasn’t the only one. I’d got a way with me, I suppose. Anyhow, the men seemed to think so. There was always a few ’anging about. Like flies round a ’oney-pot, Mother used to say.” She giggled. “But ’e wouldn’t take No for an answer. And I didn’t want to give it ’im, neither. I was gone on ’im, right enough. No use saying I wasn’t.”!

“It still sells,” answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist. “Doesn’t agree with you?” inquired Miss Ensor.

“It was a foolish notion,” she said, “that of the Manchester school: that men and women could be treated as mere figures in a sum.” “Thank you,” she answered. “He would think it kind of you, I know.” “Doesn’t agree with you?” inquired Miss Ensor.