The glass-set door opened with unwarning abruptness.
"I'll see Mr. Bailey," declared some one. "He'll know."
Helpless, Emily stood still, and straightway found herself looking directly into Lestrange's gray eyes as he halted on the threshold.
It was Bailey who upheld the moment, all unconsciously.
"Come in," he invited heartily. "Miss Ffrench, this is our manager, Mr. Lestrange; the man who's going to double our sales this year."
Emily moved, then straightened herself proudly, lifting her small head. Lestrange had recognized her, she felt; the call was to courage, not flight.
"I think I have already met Mr. Lestrange," she said composedly. "I am pleased to meet him again."
"Met him!" cried Bailey. "Met him? Why—"
Neither heeded him. A gleaming surprise and warmth lit Lestrange's always brilliant face.
"Thank you," he answered her. "You are more than good to recall me, Miss Ffrench. I owe an apology for breaking in this way, but I fancied Mr. Bailey alone—and he spoils me."