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"Oh, it's you, is it?" she snapped.

Leslie groaned inwardly as she looked at the woman before her; for this lady of leisure was the Maggie Lane mentioned by the megaphone—Margaret Lane Wilkinson now, but still Maggie by nature—and her step-mother! The girl's eyes moistened as she thought of her own mother that she had known, and who had died a short time ago. For in the case of Wilkinson the funeral baked meats had almost furnished the marriage feast.

"Anything I can do?" asked the young girl, forcing up the pleasant little smile that was always part and parcel of Leslie Wilkinson.

The lady of the flowered kimona did not respond at once, but kept her eyes fastened on the door.

"I told Jeffries to get those extras right away—he's been gone an hour," she complained.

Leslie could not suppress a smile when she saw the multitude of papers that bestrewed the bed and floor, and before she could speak, the elder woman went on, between sips of her claret cup, to say:

"Oh, the disgrace of these failures! The terrible charges that are made! I simply cannot stand it! A mere girl, like you, cannot appreciate the strain of this thing on my nerves. And everybody thinks of nothing but the strain on Peter; no one considers poor me——"