"Here, what the hell do you mean by giving that girl only nine dollars a week?"
Suddenly the idyllic peaceful ness of his mood was shattered into a thousand fragments. John Dene had burst into the room with the force of a cyclone, and stood before him like an accusing fury.
"Nine dollars a week! What girl?" he stuttered, looking up weakly into John Dene's angry eyes. "I—I——"
"Miss West," was the retort. "She's getting nine dollars a week, less than I pay an office boy in T'ronto."
"But I—it's nothing to do with me," began Mr. Blair miserably. He had become mortally afraid of John Dene, and prayed for the time to come when the Hun submarine menace would be ended, and John Dene could return to Toronto, where no doubt he was understood and appreciated.
"Well, it ought to be," snapped John Dene, just as Sir Bridgman North came out of Sir Lyster's room.
"Good morning, Mr. Dene," he cried genially. "What are you doing to poor Blair?"
John Dene explained his grievance. "I'd pay the difference myself, just to make you all feel a bit small, only she won't take it from me."
"Well, I think I can promise that the matter shall be put right, and we'll make Blair take her out to lunch by way of apology, shall we?" he laughed.
"I'd like to see him ask her," said John Dene grimly. "That girl's a high-stepper, sir. Nine dollars a week!" he grumbled as he left the room to the manifest relief of Mr. Blair.