She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn.
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