“I hear you’ve been distinguishing yourself,” said Mr. Wellby, the floorwalker.  “Let’s see your hands.  Oh, I guess they won’t put you out of business, a brave girl like you.”

“I’m as well as ever, thank you,” said Win.

Stupid of her, wanting to cry again just because people were paying her compliments!  But perhaps she hadn’t quite got over last night and not sleeping at all.  And then Sadie’s letter.  Things had piled on top of each other, but she mustn’t let herself go to pieces.  She must keep her wits and think—­think—­think how to get at Sadie and what to do for her.

Dr. Marlow had covered Win’s fingers with something he called “newskin,” since it would not do for a “saleslady” to disgust customers by serving them with bandaged hands.  It was like a transparent varnish and made her nails shine as brightly as those of the vainest girls who spent all their spare time in polishing.  But the redness showed through, as if her hands were horribly chapped.  She saw a lady who had asked her to try on a white lace evening coat staring at them.

“What’s the matter with your hands?” The question came sharply.

“I scalded them a little this morning,” Win explained.

“Oh!  I’m glad it isn’t a disease."

The girl blushed faintly, ashamed, glanced down at the offending pink fingers, and turning slowly round to display the cloak, suddenly looked up into the eyes of Peter Rolls.

She could not help starting and drawing in her breath.  For half a second her brain whirled and she thought that she imagined him, that it was just such another vision as those of last night when she had put on the Moon dress.

His eyes were looking at her as they had looked then, and they were the good blue eyes of Mr. Balm of Gilead.  It could not be that he was really here gazing at her.  It must be some other man like him.  But no!  He had taken off his hat.  He was saying something in the well remembered—­too well remembered!—­voice.

“How do you do, Miss Child?  When you’ve finished with this lady, I shall be so much obliged if you can speak to me for a minute.”

She bowed her head—­quite a polite, ordinary sort of bow, just like that of any well-trained saleslady to a prospective customer intending to wait till she was free.  But really it did not mean politeness at all.  It meant that she had to hide her face, and that it was taking every square inch of nerve force she had to behave in the least like a saleslady.

It was seeing Peter Rolls suddenly—­Peter Rolls in flesh and bone and muscle and magnetism of eyes, which told her in a devastating flash a thing about herself she had feared for months—­ever since the day she turned her back upon Mr. Balm of Gilead and the Monarchic.

She was in love with him.  Hideously, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with him, just as ridiculous girls always were with men they oughtn’t to think of.  Probably he had tried to make her so at first with his friendly, chivalrous ways that hid blacknesses underneath.