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smile which was both cynical and pathetic. But as Ann followed the porter up to her little bedroom on the first floor, she knew the utter loneliness and desolation of the shipwrecked mariner. The hotel was a desert island where she was stranded, with nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for.

She reached her room, locked the door, lay down on her bed, and had a good, solid cry. After that, feeling a trifle better, she got up, bathed her eyes, unpacked, and rang for tea. Then when she had finished, as it was still early, she decided that she would waste no time, but would go out, find an estate agent, and see if she could discover a suitable room for her hat shop. And she would purchase material, and spend her evening in creating one or two Parisian models. No matter if it were weeks before she found her room—she would employ every available moment of her time when not searching for her location in manufacturing her stock-in-trade. Love, or money, seemed to be the two rival interests of most people’s lives; and money, with the majority, apparently took first place. It never would with Ann, but she couldn’t find love—not the love she wanted—and so the rest of her life should be devoted to amassing a fortune. She would make a success of her new venture, and become a rich woman.

That being settled, she jotted down a note of her resources, and a plan of campaign. After deducting the fees for the children—for the remainder of the holidays and the first term—she would have about three hundred and thirty-five pounds in ready cash. Not a very vast sum with which to start a large and flourishing business. But Ann wasn’t going to think of the difficulties. Suppose she lost all her little capi-