‘That’s Hugo.  See him, in the gray suit?’

‘What?  That chap?’

And they would both probably remark at lunch:  ’I saw Hugo himself to-day at Hugo’s.’

He took an oath in his secret heart that he would not go near Department 42, the only department which had the slightest interest for him.  He knew that he could not be too discreet.  And yet eventually, without knowing how or why, he perceived of a sudden that his legs carried him thither.  He stopped, at a loss what to do, and then, by the direct interposition of kindly Fate, a manager spoke to him....  He gazed out of the corner of his eye.  Yes, she was there.  He could see her through a half-drawn portiere in one of the trying-on rooms.  She was sitting limp on a chair, overcome by the tropic warmth of Sloane Street, with her noble head thrown back, her fine eyes half shut, and her beautiful hands lying slackly on her black apron.

What an impeachment of civilization that a creature so fair and so divine should be forced to such a martyrdom!  He desired ardently to run to her and to set her free for the day, for the whole summer, and on full wages.  He wondered if he could trust the manager with instructions to alleviate her lot....  The next instant she sprang up, giving the indispensable smile of welcome to some customer who had evidently entered the trying-on room from the other side.  The phenomenon distressed him.  She disappeared from view behind the portiere, and reappeared, but only for a moment, talking to a foppish old man with a white moustache.  It was Senior Polycarp, the lawyer.

Hugo flushed, and, abandoning the manager in the middle of a sentence, fled to his central office.  He had no confidence in his self-command....  Could this be jealousy?  Was it possible that he, Hugo, should be so far gone?  Nay!

But what was Polycarp, that old and desiccated widower, doing in the millinery department?

He said he must form some definite plan, and begin by giving her a private room.

CHAPTER III

HUGO EXPLAINS HIMSELF

‘And what,’ asked Hugo, smiling faintly at Mr. Senior Polycarp—­’what is your client’s idea of price?’

For half an hour they had been talking in the luxurious calm of Hugo’s central office, which was like an island refuge in the middle of that tossing ocean of business.  It overlooked the court of fountains from the second story, and the highest jet of water threw a few jewelled drops to the level of its windows.

Mr. Polycarp stroked his beautiful white moustache.

‘We would give,’ he said in his mincing, passionless voice, ’the cost price of premises, stock, and fixtures, and for goodwill seven times your net annual profits.  In addition, we should be anxious to secure your services as managing director for ten years at five thousand a year, plus a percentage of profits.’