On this particular afternoon Miss Thornton delayed Susan Brown, with
a significant glance, when the whistle blew at half-past five, and
the girls crowded about the little closet for their wraps.

"S'listen, Susan," said she, with a look full of import. Susan
leaned over Miss Thornton's flat-topped desk so that their heads
were close together. "Listen," said Miss Thornton, in a low tone, "I
met George Banks on the deck this afternoon, see? And I happened to
tell him that Miss Wrenn was going." Miss Thornton glanced
cautiously about her, her voice sank to a low murmur. "Well. And
then he says, 'Yes, I knew that,' he says, 'but do you know who's
going to take her place?' 'Miss Kirk is,' I says, 'and I think it's
a dirty shame!'"

"Good for you!" said Susan, grateful for this loyalty.

"Well, I did, Susan. And it is, too! But listen. 'That may be,' he
says, 'but what do you know about young Coleman coming down to work
in Front Office!'"

"Peter Coleman!" Susan gasped. This was the most astonishing, the
most exciting news that could possibly have been circulated. Peter
Coleman, nephew and heir of old "J. G." himself, handsome, college-
bred, popular from the most exclusive dowager in society to the
humblest errand boy in his uncle's employ, actually coming down to
Front Office daily, to share the joys and sorrows of the Brauer
dynasty--it was unbelievable, it was glorious! Every girl in the
place knew all about Peter Coleman, his golf record, his blooded
terriers, his appearances in the social columns of the Sunday
newspapers! Thorny remembered, although she did not boast of it, the