He made straight for Madeline as he invariably did.  He was always friendly and gay and casual with her, always careful to let no one suspect he had ever known her any more intimately than at present—­not because he cared on his own account—­Ted Holiday was no snob.  But because he had sense to see it was better for Madeline herself.

He was genuinely sorry for the girl.  He could not help seeing how her despondency grew upon her from week to week and that she appeared miserably sick as well as unhappy.  She looked worse than usual to-day, he thought, white and heavy-eyed and unmistakably heavy-hearted.  It troubled him to see her so.  Ted had the kindest heart in the world and always wanted every one else to be as blithely content with life as he was himself.  Accordingly now under cover of his purchase of chrysanthemums for Elsie he managed to get in a word in her ear.

“You look as if you needed cheering up a bit.  How about the movies to-night?  Charlie’s on.  He’ll fix you.”

“No, thank you, I couldn’t.”  The girl’s voice was also prudently low, and she busied herself with the flowers instead of looking at Ted as she spoke.

“Why not?” he challenged, always impelled to insistence by denial.

“Because I—­” And then to Ted’s consternation the flowers flew out of her hands, scattering in all directions, her face went chalky white and she fell forward in a heavy faint in Ted Holiday’s arms.

Ted got her to a chair, ordered another clerk to get water and spirits of ammonia quick.  His arm was still around her when Patrick Berry strayed in from the back room.  Berry’s eyes narrowed.  He looked the girl over from head to foot, surveyed Ted Holiday also with sharp scrutiny and knitted brows.  The clerk returned with water and dashed off for the ammonia as ordered.  Madeline’s eyes opened slowly, meeting Ted’s anxious blue ones as he bent over her.

“Ted!” she gasped.  “Oh, Ted!”

Her eyes closed again wearily.  Berry’s frown deepened.  His best customer had hitherto in his hearing been invariably addressed by the girl as Mr. Holiday.

In a moment Madeline’s eyes opened again and she almost pushed Ted away from her, shooting a frightened, deprecating glance at her employer as she did so.

“I—­I am all right now,” she said, rising unsteadily.

“You are nothing of the sort, Madeline,” protested Ted, also forgetting caution in his concern.  “You are sick.  I’ll get a taxi and take you home.  Mr. Berry won’t mind, will you Berry?” appealed the best customer, completely unaware of the queer, sharp look the florist was bending upon him.

“No, she’d better go,” agreed Berry shortly.  “I’ll call a cab.”  He walked over to the telephone but paused, his hand on the receiver and looked back at Ted.  “Where does she live?” he asked.  “Do you know?”

“Forty-nine Cherry,” returned Ted still unconsciously revelatory.