"What made Josephine jealous of her?" 

 "Haven't I told you Josephine was not——" 

 "But I saw. Who is this girl?—pretty?" 

 Norman pretended to stifle a yawn. "Josephine bored me half to death talking about her. Now it's you. I never heard so much about so little." 

 "Is there something up between you and the girl?" teased Ursula. 

 "Now, that's an outrage!" cried Norman. "She's got nothing but her reputation, poor child. Do leave her that." 

 "Is she very young?" 

 "How should I know?" 

 "Youth is a charm in itself." 

 "What sort of rot is this!" exclaimed he. "Do you think I'd drop down to anything of that kind—in any circumstances? A little working girl—and in my own office?" 

 "Why do you heat so, Fred?" teased the sister. "Really, I don't wonder Josephine was torn up." 

 An auto almost ran into them—one of those innumerable hairbreadth escapes that make the streets of New York as exciting as a battle—and as dangerous. For a few minutes Ursula's mind was deflected. But a fatality seemed to pursue the subject of the pale obscurity whose very name he was uncertain whether he remembered aright. 

 Said Ursula, as they entered the house, "A girl working in the office with a man has a magnificent chance at him. It's lucky for the men that women don't know their business, but are amateurs and too stuck on themselves to set and bait their traps properly. Is that girl trying to get round you?" 

 "What possesses everybody to-night!" cried Norman. "I tell you the girl's as uninteresting a specimen as you could find." 

 "Then why are you so interested in her?" teased the sister. 

 Norman shrugged his shoulders, laughed with his normal easy good humor and went to his own floor. 

 On top of the pile of letters beside his plate, next morning, lay a note from Josephine: 

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