XIV
In her dark hour came Paul.
"I know," he said, hunting her out in the corner of the melancholy drawing-room where she sat Sunday afternoon with absent eyes upon "The Trial of Effie Deans." "Some of it I guessed, and a little more filtered from Amy via Mrs. St. Aubyn, but I got the finishing touch from a man in the store."
"The store!" Jean had a moment of acute dismay; she would fain leave Paul his illusions. "What man?"
"A chap in the drug department I do work for now and then. He turned up at the parlors this morning. We're open Sundays from 'leven to one, you know."
Then, the refuge spectre had followed here! She could not look him in the face. But Paul's next words reassured.
"He didn't mention names, but I put two and two together quick enough when he told me that one of their new girls knocked out a fresh floor-walker the other night. I was proud I knew you."
"Did he know of my—my discharge?"
"No."
"You didn't mention it yourself?" Jean faltered. "Or my name?"