“Sorry, my dear, no can do,” said Suzanne; “ordinary bridge at three-pence a hundred, with such dreadfully slow players as your aunts, bores me to tears.  I nearly go to sleep over it.”

“But I most particularly want an opportunity to talk with Harry,” urged Eleanor, an angry glint coming into her eyes.

“Sorry, anything to oblige, but not that,” said Suzanne cheerfully; the sacrifices of friendship were beautiful in her eyes as long as she was not asked to make them.

Eleanor said nothing further on the subject, but the corners of her mouth rearranged themselves.

“There’s our man!” exclaimed Suzanne suddenly; “hurry!”

Mr. Bertram Kneyght greeted his cousin and her friend with genuine heartiness, and readily accepted their invitation to explore the crowded mart that stood temptingly at their elbow.  The plate-glass doors swung open and the trio plunged bravely into the jostling throng of buyers and loiterers.

“Is it always as full as this?” asked Bertram of Eleanor.

“More or less, and autumn sales are on just now,” she replied.

Suzanne, in her anxiety to pilot her cousin to the desired haven of the fur department, was usually a few paces ahead of the others, coming back to them now and then if they lingered for a moment at some attractive counter, with the nervous solicitude of a parent rook encouraging its young ones on their first flying expedition.

“It’s Suzanne’s birthday on Wednesday next,” confided Eleanor to Bertram Kneyght at a moment when Suzanne had left them unusually far behind; “my birthday comes the day before, so we are both on the look-out for something to give each other.”

“Ah,” said Bertram.  “Now, perhaps you can advise me on that very point.  I want to give Suzanne something, and I haven’t the least idea what she wants.”

“She’s rather a problem,” said Eleanor.  “She seems to have everything one can think of, lucky girl.  A fan is always useful; she’ll be going to a lot of dances at Davos this winter.  Yes, I should think a fan would please her more than anything.  After our birthdays are over we inspect each other’s muster of presents, and I always feel dreadfully humble.  She gets such nice things, and I never have anything worth showing.  You see, none of my relations or any of the people who give me presents are at all well off, so I can’t expect them to do anything more than just remember the day with some little trifle.  Two years ago an uncle on my mother’s side of the family, who had come into a small legacy, promised me a silver-fox stole for my birthday.  I can’t tell you how excited I was about it, how I pictured myself showing it off to all my friends and enemies.  Then just at that moment his wife died, and, of course, poor man, he could not be expected to think of birthday presents at such a time.  He has lived abroad ever since, and I never got my fur.  Do you know, to this day I can scarcely look at a silver-fox pelt in a shop window or round anyone’s neck without feeling ready to burst into tears.  I suppose if I hadn’t had the prospect of getting one I shouldn’t feel that way.  Look, there is the fan counter, on your left; you can easily slip away in the crowd.  Get her as nice a one as you can see—­she is such a dear, dear girl.”