“What reasonable hope have you?” Monica urged, forcing herself to be cruel, because it seemed the only way of putting an end to this situation. 

 “Oh, there are so many opportunities in our business. I could point to half a dozen successful men who were at the counter a few years ago. I may become a walker, and get at least three pounds a week. If I were lucky enough to be taken on as a buyer, I might make—why, some make many hundreds a year—many hundreds.” 

 “And you would ask me to wait on and on for one of these wonderful chances?” 

 “If I could move your feelings, Miss Madden,” he began, with a certain dolorous dignity; but there his voice broke. He saw too plainly that the girl had neither faith in him nor liking for him. 

 “Mr. Bullivant, I think you ought to wait until you really have prospects. If you were encouraged by some person, it would be a different thing. And indeed you haven’t to look far. But where there has never been the slightest encouragement, you are really wrong to act in this way. A long engagement, where everything remains doubtful for years, is so wretched that—oh, if I were a man, I would never try to persuade a girl into that! I think it wrong and cruel.” 

 The stroke was effectual. Bullivant averted his face, naturally woebegone, and sat for some minutes without speaking. The bus again drew up; four or five people were about to ascend. 

 “I will say good-morning, Miss Madden,” he whispered hurriedly. 

 She gave her hand, glanced at him with embarrassment, and so let him depart. 

 Ten minutes restored the mood in which she had set out. Once more she smiled to herself. Indeed, her head was better for the fresh air and the movement. If only the sisters would allow her to get away soon after dinner! 

 It was Virginia who opened the door to her, and embraced and kissed her with wonted fondness. 

 “You are nice and early! Poor Alice has been in bed since the day before yesterday; a dreadful cold and one of her very worst headaches. But I think she is a little better this morning.” 

 Alice—a sad spectacle—was propped up on pillows. 

 “Don’t kiss me, darling,” she said, in a voice barely audible. “You mustn’t risk getting a sore throat. How well you look!” 

 “I’m afraid she doesn’t look well,” corrected 

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