The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
outstanding accounts are also lower.
Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
the slums a Christmas din----Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
other 364?
Miss McRamsey--beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
radiant--fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
a little arched opening, fenced her in.
Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring--admiring
greatly, and faced the open wicket.
"You look chawming, you know--'pon my word you do--my deah," he said,
beguilingly.
Miss McRamsey whirled around.
"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!--"
Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
certain booth.
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