“They’re going to adopt me,” she told the bereft restaurateur.  “They’re funny old people, but regular dears.  And the swell home they have got!  Say, Hinkle, there isn’t any use of talking—­I’m on the a la carte to wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.  Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage.  I’ve been cashiering so long I feel funny doing anything else.  I’ll miss joshing the fellows awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and.  But I can’t let this chance slide.  And they’re awfully good, Hinkle; I know I’ll have a swell time.  You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week.  Cut out the half if it hurts you, Hinkle.”

And they did.  Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey.  And she graced the transition.  Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to the skin.  Nerve—­but just here will you oblige by perusing again the quotation with which this story begins?

The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their adopted one.  Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.  Miss—­er—­McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle’s.  To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle’s did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.

Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East Seventy——­ Street, America.  He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without debts, and he created little excitement.  But you will surely remember the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the W——­f-A——­a Hotel.  For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that—­you did not?  Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.

At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent.  Miss Mer—­er—­McRamsey was exquisitely beautiful.  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!—­”