This idle and subtly proud young woman leans for a moment over the parapet and stares at the gray ebb. Pink cheeks, and superb wheaten-lashed eyes, eyes that concede a little in blueness to the sky over her, but nothing in brilliance; London could never have bred a thing so pure. Yet when she turns and surveys the handsome row of brick houses, some new, some old, that front the river across the road it is very evident that she holds nothing against London. And it is a face without envy, as it takes in the well-to-do houses; but full of a naive happiness that such fine things exist.

A hansom approaches, from the direction of central London. The blue-gray eyes watch it, in a way that suggests the watcher still finds such banal elements of the London scene fascinating and strange. It draws to a stop outside a large house opposite. A woman emerges, steps down to the pavement, takes a coin from her purse.

The mouth of the girl on the embankment falls open. A moment’s pallor attacks the pink, and then she flushes. The cabby touches the brim of his hat with two fingers. His fare walks quickly towards the front door of the house behind her. The girl moves forward to the curb, half hiding behind a tree trunk. The woman opens the front door, disappears inside.

“’Twas ‘er, Sam. I saw ‘er clear as—”

“I can’t hardly believe it.”

But he could; indeed, some sixth or seventh sense in him had almost expected it. He had looked up the old cook, Mrs. Rogers, on his return to London; and received from her a detailed account of Charles’s final black weeks in Kensington. That was a long time ago now. Outwardly he had shared her disapproval of their former master. But inwardly something had stirred; being a matchmaker is one thing. A match-breaker is something other.

Sam and Mary were staring at each other—a dark wonderment in her eyes matching a dark doubt in his—in a front parlor that was minuscule, yet not too badly furnished. A bright fire burned in the grate. And as they questioned each other the door opened and a tiny maid, an unprepossessing girl of fourteen, came in carrying the now partly unswaddled infant—the last good crop, I believe, ever to come out of Carslake’s Barn. Sam immediately took the bundle in his arms and dandled it and caused screams, a fairly invariable procedure when he returned from work. Mary nastily took the precious burden and grinned at the foolish father, while the little waif by the door grinned in sympathy at both. And now we can see distinctly that Mary is many months gone with another child.

“Well, my love, I’m hoff to partake of refreshment. You put the supper on. ‘Arriet?”

“Yes. sir. Read’in narf-n-nour, sir.”

“There’s a good girl. My love.” And as if nothing was on his mind, he kissed Mary on the cheek, then tickled the baby’s ribs.

He did not look quite so happy a man five minutes later, when he sat in the sawdusted corner of a nearby public house, with a gin and hot water in front of him. He certainly had everv outward reason to be happy. He did not own his own shop, but he had something nearly as good. The first baby had been a girl, but that was a small disappointment he felt confident would soon be remedied.

Sam had played his cards very right in Lyme. Aunt Tranter had been a soft touch from the start. He had thrown himself, with Mary’s aid, on her mercy. Had he not lost all his prospects by his brave giving in of notice? Was it not gospel that Mr. Charles had promised him a loan, of four hundred (always ask a higher price than you dare) to set him up in business? What business?

“Same as Mr. Freeman’s, m’m, honly in a very, very ‘umble way.”

And he had played the Sarah card very well. For the first few days nothing would make him betray his late master’s guilty secrets; his lips were sealed. But Mrs. Tranter was so kind—Colonel Locke at Jericho House was looking for a manservant, and Sam’s unemployment was of a very short duration. So was his remaining bachelorhood; and the ceremony that concluded it was at the bride’s mistress’s expense. Clearly he had to make some return.

Like all lonely old ladies Aunt Tranter was forever in search of someone to adopt and help; and she was not allowed to forget that Sam wanted to go into the haberdashery line. Thus it was that one day, when staying in London with her sister, Mrs. Tranter ventured to broach the matter to her brother-in-law. At first he was inclined to shake his head. But then he was gently reminded how honorably the young servant had behaved; and he knew better than Mrs. Tranter to what good use Sam’s information had been and might still be put.

“Very well, Ann. I will see what there is. There may be a vacancy.”

Thus Sam gained a footing, a very lowly one, in the great store. But it was enough. What deficiencies he had in education he supplied with his natural sharpness. His training as a servant stood him in good stead in dealing with customers. He dressed excellently. And one day he did something better.

It was a splendid April morning some six months after his married return to London, and just nine before the evening that saw him so unchipper in his place of refreshment. Mr. Freeman had elected to walk to his store from the Hyde Park house. He passed at last along its serried windows and entered the store, the sign for a great springing, scraping and bowing on the part of his ground-floor staff. Customers were few at that early hour. He raised his hat in his customary seigneurial way, but then to everyone’s astonishment promptly turned and went out again. The nervous superintendent of the floor stepped outside as well. He saw the tycoon standing in front of a window and staring at it. The superintendent’s heart fell, but he sidled up discreetly behind Mr. Freeman.

“An experiment, Mr. Freeman. I will have it removed at once.”

Three other men stopped beside them. Mr. Freeman cast them a quick look, then took the superintendent by the arm and led him a few steps away.

“Now watch, Mr. Simpson.”

They stood there for some five minutes. Again and again people passed the other windows and stopped at that one. Some, as Mr. Freeman himself had done, took it in without noticing, then retraced their steps to look at it.

I am afraid it will be an anticlimax to describe it. But you would have had to see those other windows, monotonously cluttered and monotonously ticketed, to appreciate its distinction; and you have to remember that unlike our age, when the finest flower of mankind devote their lives to the great god Publicity, the Victorians believed in the absurd notion that good wine needs no bush. The back of the display was a simple draped cloth of dark purple. Floating in front was a striking array, suspended on thin wires, of gentlemen’s collars of every conceivable shape, size and style. But the cunning in the thing was that they were arranged to form words. And they cried, they positively bellowed: Freeman’s For Choice.

“That, Mr. Simpson, is the best window dressing we have done this year.”

“Exactly, Mr. Freeman. Very bold. Very eye-catching.”

“‘Freeman’s for Choice.’ That is precisely what we offer—why else do we carry such a large stock? ‘Freeman’s for Choice’—excellent! I want that phrase in all our circulars and advertisements from now on.”

He marched back towards the entrance. The superintendent smiled.

“We owe this to you in great part, Mr. Freeman, sir. That young man—Mr. Farrow?—you remember you took a personal interest in his coming to us?”

Mr. Freeman stopped. “Farrow—his first name is Sam?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Bring him to me.”

“He came in at five o’clock, sir, especially to do it.”

Thus Sam was at last brought bashfully face to face with the great man.

“Excellent work, Farrow.”

Sam bowed deep. “It was my hutmost pleasure to do it, sir.”