“I—­oh!” murmured Septimus.  “I forgot about it last night—­and this morning I found I hadn’t any brown boot polish—­I—­”

“Used the cure?” cried Zora, aghast.

“Yes,” said Septimus, timidly.  “It’s rather good,” and he regarded his dazzling boots.

Clem Sypher burst into a roar of laughter and clapped Septimus on the shoulder.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he cried delightedly.  “Didn’t I tell you it’s good for everything?  What cream could give you such a polish?  By Jove!  You deserve to be on the free list for life.  You’ve given me a line for an ad.  ’If your skin is all right, try it on your boots.’  By George!  I’ll use it.  This is a man with ideas, Mrs. Middlemist.  We must encourage him.”

“Mr. Dix is an inventor,” said Zora.  She liked Sypher for laughing.  It made him human.  It was therefore with a touch of kindly feeling that she thanked him for the roses.

“I wanted to make them blush at the sight of your complexion after the cure,” said he.

It was a compliment, and Zora frowned; but it was a professional compliment—­so she smiled.  Besides, the day was perfect, and Zora not only had not a care in the wide world, but was conscious of a becoming hat.  She could not help smiling pleasantly on the world.

An empty motor car entered the square, and drew up near by.  The chauffeur touched his cap.

“I’ll run you both over to Nice,” said Clem Sypher.  “I have to meet my agent there and put the fear of God into him.  I shan’t be long.  My methods are quick.  And I’ll run you back again.  Don’t say no.”

There was the car—­a luxurious 40 h.p. machine, upholstered in green; there was Clem Sypher, pink and strong, appealing to her with his quick eyes; there was the sunshine and the breathless blue of the sky; and there was Septimus Dix, a faithful bodyguard.  She wavered and turned to Septimus.

“What do you say?”

She was lost.  Septimus murmured something inconclusive.  Sypher triumphed.  She went indoors to get her coat and veil.  Sypher admiringly watched her retreating figure—­a poem of subtle curves—­and shrugging himself into his motor coat, which the chauffeur brought him from the car, he turned to Septimus.

“Look here, Mr. Dix, I’m a straight man, and go straight to a point.  Don’t be offended.  Am I in the way?”

“Not in the least,” said Septimus, reddening.

“As for me, I don’t care a hang for anything in the universe save Sypher’s Cure.  That’s enough for one man to deal with.  But I like having such a glorious creature as Mrs. Middlemist in my car.  She attracts attention; and I can’t say but what I’m not proud at being seen with her, both as a man and a manufacturer.  But that’s all.  Now, tell me, what’s in your mind?”

“I don’t think I quite like you—­er—­to look on Mrs. Middlemist as an advertisement,” said Septimus.  To speak so directly cost him considerable effort.