She had a new frock, but not of the colour intended.  By the following month her father was enclosed in a coffin, and it happened to his estate, as to the estates of many successful men who employ stockbrokers, that the liabilities far more than covered the assets.  May and her mother were left without a penny.  The mother did the right thing, and died—­it was best.  May went direct to Brunt’s, the largest draper in the Five Towns, and asked for a place under ‘Madame’ in the dress-making department.  Brunt’s daughter, who was about to be married, gave her the place instantly.  Three years later, when ‘Madame’ returned to Paris, May stepped into the French-woman’s shoes.

On Sundays and on Thursday afternoons, and sometimes (but not too often) at the theatre, May was the finest walking advertisement that Brunt’s ever had.  Old Brunt would have proposed to her, it was rumoured, had he not been scared by her elegance.  Sundry sons of prosperous manufacturers, unabashed by this elegance, did in fact secretly propose, but with what result was known only to themselves.

Later, as May waxed in importance at Brunt’s, she was sent to Manchester to buy.  She lunched at the Exchange Restaurant.  The world and Manchester are very small.  The first man she set eyes on was Edward Norris.  Another week, Norris said to her with a thrill, and he would have been gone for ever to London.  Chance is not to be flouted.  The sequel was inevitable.  They loved.  And all the select private bars in Hanbridge tinkled to the news that May Scarratt had been and hooked a stockbroker!

When the toilette was done, and the maid gone, she wound a thin black scarf round her olive neck and shoulders, and sat down negligently on a Chippendale settee in the attitude of a portrait by Boldini; her little feet were tucked up sideways on the settee; the perforated lace ends of the scarf fell over her low corsage to the level of the seat.  And she waited, still the bride.  He was late, but she knew he would be late.  Sure in the conviction that he was a strong man, a man of imagination and of deeds, she could easily excuse this failing in him, as she did that other habit of impulsive action in trifles.  Nay, more, she found keen pleasure in excusing it.  ‘Dear thing!’ she reflected, ’he forgets so.’  Therefore she waited, content in enjoying the image in the glass of her dark face, her small plump person, and her Paris gown—­that dream!  She thought with assuaged grief of her father’s tragedy; she would have liked him to see her now, the jewel in the case—­her father and she had understood each other.