"Mr. Stafford didn't get more than fourteen when he was your age. He was poor, too."
"Yes," chimed in Fanny with a toss of her head, "and when they raised you from twelve at Christmas you thought you were doing great. I remember how chesty you were about it."
Jimmie grinned. In tones meant to be tender he replied:
"Only because I figured that I might be gettin' eighteen pretty soon and then we could get married." Eying her sheepishly, he went on: "Do we still have to wait till I get eighteen, Fanny?"
"We certainly do," she retorted promptly. "A couple simply can't live on less than eighteen."
The shipping clerk thrust his hands in his pockets and began to stride up and down the room. Peevishly he exclaimed:
"I know it. That's what makes me so sore when I read about millionaires like Stafford having luxurious private yachts, giving fifty thousand for a picture and things like that. They have so much money they don't know what to do with it, and yet all that stands between me and happiness is four dollars a week and I can't get it."
Virginia, who was sitting on the sofa, having become interested in a cabinet full of curios close by, looked up with a smile. Encouragingly she said:
"Don't worry, Jimmie, your chance will come just as Mr. Stafford's did."
"Fine chance I've got," he growled; "third assistant shipping clerk in a wholesale grocery. Why, the manager of the department only gets thirty and he's been with the house twenty-six years."