"Well--have you anything to tell me?"

"Not as much as I hoped. Mrs. Mundy hasn't been able to find Etta
Blake yet. Until--"

"Etta Blake?" Selwyn's tone was groping. "Oh, the little
cashier-girl. I didn't expect you to tell anything of her. I wish
you'd put her out of your mind." His face darkened.

"I can't. She seems to be in no one else's. But we won't talk of
her to-night. I saw the Swinks this afternoon."

"I know you did. Mrs. Swink telephoned Harrie to-night. Did my
appraisement approach correctness?"

"Of Mrs. Swink, yes. She's impossible. Most fat fools are. They're
like feather beds. You could stamp on them, but you couldn't get rid
of the fool-ness. It would just be in another place. She told me
she was manicured on Mondays, massaged on Tuesdays, marcelled
Wednesdays, and chiropodized on Thursdays, and one couldn't expect
much of a daughter with that sort of a mother; still, the girl
interested me. I feel sorry for her. She mustn't marry Harrie."

"But who's going to tell her?" Selwyn's voice was querulously eager.
"I thought perhaps you might find--find--"

"I did." I nodded in his flushed face. "I don't think it will be
necessary to tell her anything. She's very much in love, but not
with Harrie."