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ETHEL LINA WHITE

GREEN GINGER

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First published in The Grand Magazine, June 1927

Reprinted in Australian Women's Weekly, 5 May 1934 (this version)
This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2023
Version date: 2023-03-31

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Illustration

The Grand Magazine, June 1927, with "Green Ginger"


Illustration
Illustration

"But—but you'd never let him kiss you?" gasped Pomeroy.

ILLUSTRATED BY BOOTHROYD



Illustration

OYCE'S coloring was charming—her line was perfect. She was so exclusive—the last word in simplicity and chic. She came to Lewis Pomeroy when he was in his bath, for Joyce was a jumper-suit.

Lewis Pomeroy was a designer in the dress establishment of a certain Major Lucas, who called himself "Mary." He was a thin-faced, eager young man, who beamed at the world through horn-rimmed glasses with something of the enthusiasm of a stray pup which has, at long last, found a home.

He had only learned to sketch after the war, when other doors had been closed, owing to ill-health. After months of privation, his modest salary seemed a fortune. To add further zest to life, he was in love with "Mary's" head mannequin, Bonnie Doon.

Ambition to marry Bonnie made Pomeroy keen as mustard on his work. He had already attracted fresh custom to "Mary," and, on the strength of "Joyce," he meant to apply for an increase in salary.

The first model from his sketch had already been finished in elephant's breath and ashes of roses, while a letter—hand-written—had been sent to an important client, inviting her to a private view.

On the morning of the inspection, Pomeroy walked along the High Street, thinking only of "Joyce." The sun was shining and the streets looked clean and picturesque in the mellow light.

It was an historic borough, crusted with tradition, and it had slept for centuries by the side of its green, sluggish river. Recently, however, it had given signs of awaking to civic ambition. There was talk of municipal swimming baths and a free library. For the past two years it had possessed a picture palace, although this was due to the enterprise of a non-local syndicate and was already showing signs of sleepy sickness.

Among the citizens who planned to put their town on the map were Major Lucas—whose other name was "Mary"—and Morgan Bros., the drapers.

A great trade rivalry existed between the two. "Mary" was high-class and charged exorbitant prices. It also prided itself on the exclusive possession of a staff of four mannequins and an artist. While it pretended to ignore the existence of Morgan Bros., it could not blind itself to the fact that a good stream of money flowed into the till of its plebeian rival.

Morgan Bros. was a big, ill-built shop, without pretension to style. It did a roaring trade in cheap readymades, but it could not attract the cream of the population.

Lately new blood had come into the business in the person of a nephew, young Charles Morgan, fresh from the "Bon Marché," Paris. He was good-looking, and smart, in a hard and glossy fashion, and had at once proved himself a live wire.

His first action had been to scrap all the pallid dummies in the shop window and then to install a flock of gorgeous waxen beauties, who eclipsed even the charms of "Mary's" mannequins.

Pomeroy, therefore, was a little apprehensive of the future. Recently Charles Morgan had paid marked attentions to Bonnie Doon, which she had accepted with her habitual dreamy complacency.

Smiling at the thought of "Joyce," Pomeroy paused to bestow his usual glance of veiled contempt at the window of Morgan Bros. In spite of the gulf between them the rivals watched each other like panthers on the pounce.

As he gazed, the smile left Pomeroy's lips.

Before him was "Joyce."

Rather it was a line of "Joyce's" in crudest shades of grey and pink. A large placard proclaimed: "Snappy Suits for Misses, 39s. 11½d."

At first Pomeroy was unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Yet. in spite of her degradation, the model was his "Joyce." He recognised his own distinctive touches, which are the hall-mark of creative art, and which had raised her above the level of ordinary jumper suits.

HE walked on mechanically, reeling like a man in a bad dream. The theft admitted but one explanation—treachery. As he grew calmer, he tried to trace it to its source.

Only three persons had seen the model "Joyce," and these were the Major, Miss Beaver, the head dress-maker, who had copied the sketch, and Bonnie Doon, who had served as her dummy.

The Major was, of course, out of the question, and so was Miss Beaver, who had grown grey in the employ of the Major's mother, Madame Charlotte. Reluctantly, Pomeroy began to think of Bonnie Doon.

She was a mystery to everyone, for it was impossible to tell whether she veiled a shrewd brain under a manner of rustic simplicity, or if she was, in reality, as green as grass.

Her short life had been passed on a farm, buried deep in the country. But in spite of this she knew how to enter and win first prize in a West Country beauty competition.

Armed with the newspaper reproduction of her photograph as her testimonial, she took the cheap half-day fare to the county town.

Arrived, she displayed remarkable flair; unattracted by the large plate-glass windows of Morgan Bros., she presented herself at the unpretentious establishment of "Mary."

She was interviewed by the Major, who saw at a glance that there was no question as to her beauty. She was a real blonde with honey-yellow hair, deep sea-blue eyes and a complexion of roses and snow.

The Major was not only susceptible to a pretty face, but alive to its ornamental value in his business. Otherwise, he would have turned down Bonnie at once.

He liked his girls to be of good ad-dress and what he termed "quick in the uptake." But Bonnie was slow in answering his questions and her speech revealed the limited vocabulary of one who had passed her life among silent rustics.

Against his own judgment, the Major decided to try her out in the sales department of his elegant shop.

So Bonnie went into ribbons. Within a week she was reported to be careless and simple to the verge of simplicity. She lived in a dream. When ordered to take a message to the Major's office she was found wander-ing in the basement.

"She's a hopeless hayseed," declared the scornful cashier. "She doesn't know the difference between a florin and half a crown."

"Hum!" reflected the Major. "Pay her sixpence short on her wages and see!"

The experiment was tried. Within five seconds of opening her pay envelope. Bonnie was back at the cashier's desk.

"Please you've given me a florin instead of half a crown." She added politely, "by mistake, of course!"

The Major stepped forward.

"So you do know the difference when it happens to be your own money and not the firm's," he said dryly.

Bonnie began to cry. She declared that she was not accustomed to money, since her mother and elder sisters always presided over their stall at the market.

"And indeed. Mr. 'Mary,' " she cried, "I always looked after the firm! Directly I saw the horrid things were so much alike I always wrote down whatever was given me as a florin. So you see, if the customer didn't notice, the firm got sixpence. Indeed, indeed, I wouldn't be dishonest for the world!"

The cashier hid her smile with a manicured hand.

"Now I consider it, Major," she said, "the mistake was always in favor of 'Mary.' But it's not pleasant for me to have complaints from the public, especially now she's proved that she really knows the difference."

"But that's different," declared Bonnie earnestly. "If you had to provide yourself with clean lodgings, nourishing food and decent clothes on that"—she held up her pay envelope—you'd know if you were a farthing short right through the paper."

"Aren't you paid enough?" asked the Major uneasily.

"You're never paid enough if you want to get on," said Bonnie. "And I want to get on. It was the dream of my life to come to a select, high-class, aristocratic establishment like 'Mary.' It's not like trade. It's more like a society bazaar. And now I must go in the ribbons at Morgan Bros!"

The Major noticed that she took for granted her engagement by Morgan Bros. And he knew that she was right.

It galled, him to think of his beautiful Miss Doon being unrooted from his beautiful shop and transplanted to a bargain-basement concern like Morgan Bros.

"You spoke just now of 'nourishing food,' Miss Doon," he said reflectively. "Need it be so very nourishing? If you were a shade thinner, I might consider you as a mannequin."

"They say I have a perfect figure," said Bonnie simply.

"That is my point. A mannequin must not possess such an indiscretion. She must be line. All line. She has to display extreme modes.... Well?"

"I'll give up pudding," Bonnie promised passionately. "And, of course, I'll get the same wages as the mannequins, for my Union would never let me go for less."

It was the first time the Major had been threatened with bogy.

"You belong to a Union?" he asked.

"Not yet," Bonnie assured him. "It's not necessary when you're dealing with a gentleman."

So Bonnie Doon became a mannequin and history was repeated. In this capacity she was again a failure. She was slow in obeying the summons when the head saleswoman whistled down the tube to the mannequins' resting room, and she was unskilful in wriggling into skin-tight gowns.

Worse than this, although she was prettier than the other mannequins, she did not display her models to advantage. She was utterly lacking in clothes sense. For a person must be keen on what he sells—be it gin or giraffes—otherwise he will never persuade anyone to take home a giraffe, with a reduction for two.

Once again the Major had to face Bonnie's expulsion. By this time, he—like his artist—had fallen under the spell of Bonnie's sweetness and unfailing good temper. He was of the type which does not exact brains with beauty.

So he resolved to make Bonnie head mannequin, with charge of the model gowns and authority over the other mannequins. Her honesty and loyalty to the firm would stand him in good stead. She would see that no one wasted the gas and also be on view, on special occasions, when a new creation wanted the advertisement of her beauty.


AS he walked onward to his dreaded interview with his employer, Pomeroy reviewed Bonnie's history. When he thought of her blue eyes he was positive that she was innocent of intrigue. She was a darling, but green—green as the grass.

Yet he could not blind himself to the fact that Bonnie, although a new-comer, was drawing a higher salary than that paid to any other girl by "Mary."

"Mary's" looked more like a private house than a shop. It had a window, but it displayed nothing but some scant orchid drapery. The door was rather similar to a sheet of expensive stationery—grey, with a small silver "Mary" enscrolled in one corner.

Pomeroy slithered over the Persian rugs and polished parquet of the salon until he reached the Major's office.

The Major was lean and grey; he was dressed in grey, also, finished with white spats, four violets and a monocle.

He greeted Pomeroy with a hungry smile.

"Well, Pomeroy?" His voice was thin and toneless. "Another inspiration? A little sister for 'Joyce'?"

Pomeroy felt his throat go dry. Hitherto he had not tasted the bitter fruits of failure.

"I—I've got bad news, sir," he stammered. "They're showing 'Joyce' at Morgan Brothers!"

The Major listened to his story in stony silence.

"You've sold us a pup this time, Pomeroy," he said. "I must cancel the appointment with her ladyship, since we can no longer show 'Joyce' as a feature. You represented her as your original design, whereas she's simply a rehash of something you've seen—and forgotten—in a fashion journal. Unless," he added sharply, "you've shown your rough sketch to some outsider?"

"Is that likely, sir?" Pomeroy's thin cheeks showed his working muscles. "I swear she is original, and some-one's pinched her. But I'm entirely unable to explain it. No one saw the sketch except the dressmaker and—Except the dressmaker."

"And Miss Doon." The Major, who hunted, did not shirk the fence. "Well, we can wash out the dressmaker.

She's the soul of loyalty. As for Miss Doon, I'll tell you an incident which illustrates her keen notion of honesty."

"I don't need assurance, sir."

"Neither do I. As you know, she has made good in her new post. Yet not long ago she wanted to give notice, because she could not condone the dishonesty of the other mannequins. There were tears in her eyes—tears, Pomeroy—when she told me that they were in the habit of wearing the silk stockings, which we supply, to parties. I had trouble in assuring her that so long as they did not exceed the number of pairs allowed by the firm, we had to look down our noses at that sort of practice."

"Fine!" said Pomeroy earnestly. "Miss Doon is the last person to suspect. She's the soul of simplicity."

The Major took up a book of fashions.

"Sorry, Pomeroy, but I can spare you no more time. I hope there will be no repetition of this incident. I can only pay a salary for original

work."

Pomeroy's knees were rather shaky as he walked to the door. The Major's words suggested the lean days of unemployment.

He turned again at his employer's voice.

"I agree with you, Pomeroy. Miss Doon is the soul of simplicity. But—have you ever considered her name? 'Doon' is common and 'Bonnie' rather uncommon. But the juxtaposition does not strike me as altogether disingenuous."

Pomeroy's smile was twisted as he walked downstairs to the mannequins' room. Of course, everyone had a perfect trust in Bonnie.

Of course.


THE mannequins' room was in the basement. It was a real den, dingy, warm from a flaring gas-fire, and artificially lit. The girls were in their orchid wrappers, waiting for the sound of the whistle. They each wore flesh-hued satin slips and silk stockings and shoes to match—all the property of "Mary."

Pomeroy entered to a chorus of laughter, for the girls were at leisure. The brunette smoked a cigarette, while the brown-haired beauty worked at a cross-word puzzle. A little girl with a pert bob and an orchid frock made cocoa for her superiors.

The blonde, who was busy with her make-up, stopped in her occupation of spiking her eyelashes with some unguent which she applied with a match.

"Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "If any of this stuff gets in my eye it hurts like hell."

"No swearing, please!" It was Bonnie's voice, muffled by a hanging cluster of swathed frocks. "Lowers the tone of 'Mary', girls."

When she emerged from her shelter, Pomeroy saw that her calm was ruffled.

"Just listen to those girls laughing!" she said. "They've just asked me some-thing silly about sticking a stamp on a letter or myself. But I'm not such a fool as I look, Have you seen this?"

She pointed to a paragraph in a fashion journal.

"I've just been reading about those mirrors they use in Rue de la Paix which make customers look slim. I think Mr. 'Mary' should know about them."

"He does," said Pomeroy. "And you ought to know enough of the Major to realise that he is above such dishonesty."

"Yes," mused Bonnie. "But think of the awful prices he charges for things which cost nearly nothing. But it's quite fair when it is business."

Looking at her soft apple-bloom cheeks. Pomeroy wondered whether the guileless Bonnie was not fooling them all.

He resolved to be on guard.

"Miss Doon," he asked, "will you be surprised to hear that 'Joyce' will not be shown to-day?"

She did not blink an eyelash. "Whoever's 'Joyce'?"

"Apparently you do not remember the model."

If Pomeroy hated himself for the use of the word "apparently," it made no impression on Bonnie. During his recital of the tragedy she preserved her poker-face of innocence.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured sweetly. What was more, she looked sorry. "But jumper suits are exactly alike, you know."

Pomeroy swallowed the heresy.

"Exactly. By the way, can you draw?"

Bonnie's blush of shame was genuine.

"No. I was always so busy on the farm I hadn't time to learn too much. But—but I won a beauty prize."

"Not hard work for you," said Pomeroy gallantly.

"Well, it was rather, filling in all those coupons, voting for myself!"

Again Pomeroy fell under the spell of her crystal-clear eyes.

"Miss Doon," he said impetuously, "why do you go about with that outsider, Morgan?"

"Nephew? Oh, I like him. Such a gentleman. Always pays everywhere and doesn't take advantage. And we are taught in the country not to expect something for nothing."

"But—but you'd never let him kiss you?" gasped Pomeroy.

"We are taught in the country exactly where to draw the line." was the calm response.


THE following week was a succession of dreary days for Pomeroy, as he vainly tried to recover his lost prestige by another inspiration for "Mary". He went for long walks, but the blue dusk flowing through the crooked streets of the town, so that it looked like a page torn from some old wives' tale, only filled him with the unrest of spring.

For his worry over the future was sharpened by the change in Bonnie. He knew that love renders some people silent and that Bonnie had seemed to return his own affection.

But it was patent that her former feeling for him was blotted out by a more powerful emotion. In his company she seemed to be in a dream, although he noted jealously that when he met her with the Morgan nephew she was chattering like a brooklet.

One evening, when a heavy cold made his brain too woolly for work, he asked Bonnie to accompany him to the pictures. Later, as they ate hot cheese cakes at the pastrycook's, he broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"You're not listening. Whom are you thinking of?"

"Dear Harold Lloyd."

As Pomeroy vainly tried to think of a citizen of that name, she enlightened him.

"I saw him in a lovely picture last week. It's the dream of my life to be a film actress. But I have blue eyes. It's awful to have blue eyes. They photograph white. "Mary Pickford has hazel eyes. Oh, dear!"

Pomeroy went home in the depths of depression and ordered boiled onions for supper. And then, when his eyes ran and his head ached, he was visited by a dream of inspired beauty.

Curling out of the smoke of his broth, he saw "Viola."


"VIOLA" was a rest gown—a filmy creation in faintest mushroom and glacier-green. She suggested twilight memory and lost love, which held a delicate hint of subtle intrigue.

Pomeroy worked half the night, and presented the Major with his finished wash-drawing in the morning.

"Excellent, Pomeroy," said his employer. "Your masterpiece. It has come at an opportune moment."

The faint red streak in his grey face showed that the Major was stirred with his first real civic growing pains. He glimpsed the possibilities of a word unknown in the vocabulary of the old town—that grey limpet clinging to its past.

Expansion.

In spite of the paradox of the empty gap in front, "Mary" carried all his goods in his shop window. Only the part of the premises which were public—the shop, salon and the Major's office—were decorated in the general scheme of grey panelling, dull-silver beading and orchid pile carpets.

The rest of the large rambling house was shabby and mouse-nibbled. The Major was now visited by a dream of converting two large first-floor rooms, at present used for stock, into an elegant lounge and high-class cafe, where the cream of the county could meet to listen to wireless music and watch the parade of the mannequins.


THE chief difficulty was capital. He still had an overdraft at the bank in connection with his first venture. It was true that he had received an offer from a firm of local solicitors to sell his sole bit of property—a small fish shop, which lay between the large blocks of Morgan Bros. and the picture palace.

Although the premises were too small to be of value to Morgan Bros., the Major had inquired the name of the probable purchaser, for he had no intention of serving his rival. He was informed that the cinema company had made the offer in view of future structural alterations.

The sum offered was fair, but too low to be of much service for the Major's new needs. Moreover, the sale involved a sentimental surrender, for the fish shop had belonged to the Major's mother—Madame Charlotte—and like everyone in the town he was loyal to the past.

Unaware that he was following in the best speculative traditions, the Major resolved not to close with the offer for the present, but to lie low for a time.


HE came out of his dream as Pomeroy walked to the door—a new confidence in his look and bearing.

"If you are wise, Pomeroy, you will let no one see that sketch except the dressmaker. No one."

Pomeroy nodded. When he was back in his studio—its dirty distempered walls decorated with railway posters and Rackham reproductions—he felt a pang of real uneasiness.

Now that "Viola" stood for his second chance he remembered that he was still at a loss to trace the treachery which had stolen "Joyce."

Each of the principals, excluding Bonnie, was outside suspicion. It was absurd to credit a raw country girl with trained artistic talent which would have gained her a good salaried position. And he could not understand how she could have obtained possession of his original sketch, which was guarded by the dressmaker by day and locked away in his desk every night.

The whole affair was a mystery which left him with the uneasy feeling that the dingy walls of his office screened prying eyes.

He turned his sketch face downwards as Bonnie entered.

"Miss Beaver wants you to see those patterns of lacquer-red georgette. She won't come in as she's in a hurry."

Feeling ashamed of his suspicions, Pomeroy went into the corridor and made a lightning choice. He told him-self the while that "Viola" was safe. She was too intricate a model for any-one to memorise in a couple of minutes.

Yet it gave him a shock when he returned, to find Bonnie looking at the sketch with vivid interest.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "I think it would look wonderful in a film. Don't you think it would photo-graph wonderfully?"

"Thanks!" was Pomeroy's sole comment as he held out his hand for the sketch.

He guarded "Viola" as closely as an official of the C.I.D. while she was copied by the dressmaker. The work was carried through at record speed as she was destined to be the special feature of "Mary's" spring display at the Bear Hotel, with a cup of tea thrown in.

Once again Pomeroy walked with the spring of hope, which was only dimmed as he watched the progress of "Joyce."

She had sold like hot cakes. Already she had passed from Grey Pink into Champagne Emerald, and was now being stocked in Navy White. Nearly every flapper in the town wore one of Morgan Bros.' Snappy Suits for Misses at 39/11½.'

On the tenth day after "Viola" had been finished. Pomeroy asked Bonnie to come for a walk. It was not a success, for although she was kind, her thoughts were plainly elsewhere.

"Boring you again?" he asked.

"Oh, no. But—you will talk of the shop. And I hate shops."

"Then why did you leave the farm?"

"I hate farms, too."

"What don't you hate, then?"

"The pictures." Her blue eyes sparkled. "If you'll keep a secret, I'll tell you something. I'm going in for this!"

She showed him a newspaper clipping which told of a film magnate's efforts to find fresh talent for the screen.

"You send in your photo," explained Bonnie. "Then you have a film test. Then they give you a contract."

"Sounds simple. But I wouldn't build on it!"

"There you go!" Bonnie showed her first sign of temper. "I'm boring you now. That's why I like talking to Morgan Nephew. We're both interested in photography, so we can talk together of the pictures."

"Got a camera?" asked Pomeroy.

"How funny your voice sounds!" remarked Bonnie. "Just like the Major's! He always talks as if his teeth had slipped and trodden his tongue flat."

"Good description. Got a camera?"

"Only a pocket one."

Pomeroy's heart began to hammer violently. A photograph would account for the fidelity with which all his touches had been copied. With a sinking at his heart he realised that Bonnie had been alone in his studio long enough to take a snapshot of "Viola."

In vain he told himself that he was the victim of nerves. Bonnie was innocent as daisies and dewdrops.

But he could not sleep that night. As he tossed in the fever of unrest every door seemed to shut. He was heavy-eyed next morning and leaden-soled, as he walked to his work.

When he reached Morgan Bros., it required an effort to raise his eyes.

And there—to justify his presentiment—in the middle of the window, was "Viola."

SHE was marked at three-and-a-half guineas, and in spite of himself, Pomeroy had to admit that she was a bargain at the price. He stared at her, held by the allure of her glacier-green fragility, until his eyes grew blurred. Even more than his interview with the Major he dreaded meeting Bonnie.

The Major regarded his polished nails while Pomeroy blurted out his tale.

"Striking coincidence," he drawled. "May I inquire what Morgan Brothers paid you for your duplicate sketch?"

At the words Pomeroy's self-control broke.

"Go to blazes!" he snapped.

In the pause that followed he seemed to hear his salary drop to the ground with the rustling of notes like withered autumn leaves.

As he blindly stumbled towards the door he turned at the sound of the Major's smooth voice.

"One minute, Pomeroy!"

"Why?" He turned. "I know I'm sacked. But no man shall say I double-crossed him, and get away with it."

"Good! Two minutes, Pomeroy! I want to know if you suspect anyone of double play?"

Pomeroy's compressed lips gave him away.

"No, sir."

"Like that? Three minutes. Pomeroy! You have done good work for us and I can make allowance for the artistic temperament. Better take the day off and see if you can clear up the mystery."

Pomeroy felt vaguely that the Major was treating him decently, but he was too stunned for thanks. He knew that he could not trust himself to meet Bonnie. As he stepped into the sun-splashed street he felt that he had passed for the last time through the elegant portals of "Mary."


HE returned from his tramp in the country just before closing time, when the lamp-lighter was going his rounds.

The first person he met was Bonnie. As he approached, she paused before the window of Morgan Brothers and then audaciously pointed to the central model.

"Looks a bit like 'Viola,' " she said sweetly.

"I trace a resemblance," observed Pomeroy acidly. "In view of it, it may not surprise you to hear that I am leaving 'Mary'."

"Going-away?"

Bonnie looked blank, and the corners of her mouth began to droop.

"Going away," repeated Pomeroy. "Its been an education to meet you, but now it's Good-bye."


THE evening breeze, however—a nasty bit of work from the east—decreed otherwise. It whisked a corner of Bonnie's coat, revealing a glimpse of gleaming sequins.

"My hat!" murmured Pomeroy, as he recognised "Mary's" new Paris model. "What are you doing in that?"

Bonnie's eyes grew rather wide.

"Indeed, it's all right," she assured him. "I've only borrowed it for half an hour, to be photographed in. I'll take the greatest care of it. Why, do you know that the Major actually lets the mannequins wear their stockings to dances and make holes in them? He told me himself that I must learn to look down my nose at it."

"By why are you being photographed in it?" persisted Pomeroy.

Bonnie looked nervously up and down the street.

"Don't tell anyone! It's the competition. You have to pass a film test, so I'm having mine done by a photographer who's a friend of Mr. Morgan's. And I simply must wear something special, for no promoter will look at you if you don't seem to have a wardrobe."

Pomeroy whistled as he suddenly saw daylight.

"And did you wear 'Joyce' and 'Viola' for these tests?" he inquired.

"Yes. But both were failures, so I have to be done again."

"I see. So Morgan's helping you. Kind man. But have you forgotten that 'Joyce' and 'Viola' were to be kept secret until they had been displayed by 'Mary'?"

Bonnie's eyes began to fill.

"But no one has seen them. Not even Mr. Morgan. Just the photographer, and he doesn't count. And the film test wouldn't be sent to the competition until after they'd both been sold again and again. Stop frightening me. I tell you it's all right!"

Pomeroy patted her arm gently.

"Bonnie, you little mug! Don't you realise that a film company would make its own test? You've been used by Morgan in a dirty deal. His hired photographer might have turned a handle, but I'll eat my hat if there was an inch of film inside his machine. All he did was to take a photograph of your frock, for Morgan Brothers to copy."

"No! It can't be true! No one could be so wicked—so mean!"

Although the High Street of a small town is not an ideal place for tears, Pomeroy rejoiced as he realised that Bonnie's amazing greenness came from the best source of all, a perfect trust in human nature, based on her own standard of honesty.

She raised her tear-drowned eyes.

"I've lost you your job!" she cried. "All through my vanity!"

"Poor little thing!" said Pomeroy. "Now I'll have to leave you for a few minutes. I want to have a little chat with Nephew."

His eyes gleamed as he spoke. Although he was uncertain of the outcome of their meeting, he had been considered a useful boxer when he was training for the Army.

"I want to see you presently, Bonnie," he said. "Where will you be?"

"M-M-Mary's."

"Poor little thing!"


WHEN Bonnie entered, the Major was sitting at his desk, reading a letter from a solicitor. Although the original offer for his fish-shop had been raised, it was not sufficient to finance a new venture. His hope of expansion seemed frost-bitten, and he felt, consequently, depressed and out of temper.

Bonnie poured out her confession, and sat in resigned submission for his inevitable lecture.

Presently, it began to dawn on her that the Major was not such a kind gentleman as usual. He never patted her arm. or said "Poor little thing!"

She blinked her lashes dry.

"Well, anyway," she said briskly, "I've learned something by being friends with Mr. Morgan. I know that the Picture Palace here belongs to Morgan Bros., because they got all the shares when the company was rocky, and they're going to build a new cinema near the station. But they don't want anyone to know! Isn't that funny?"

The Major's cold eye bolted behind his monocle, as he realised the value of Bonnie's news. The theft of his models had been a bit of trickery which could only have a limited life. It was possibly the outcome of the nephew's rivalry with Pomeroy.

What was of real importance was the knowledge that, while he dreamed of expansion, the same idea had visited his business rivals. They meant to extend their premises from their pre-sent block to the Picture Palace at the corner.

Their sole obstacle was the wretched fish shop which lay between.

The Major thought rapidly. It was useless to try to stop a big firm from reaching out, especially as there should be room in the town for two different classes of business.

For "Mary" would become so specialised and exclusive as to fear no rival—when he had carried out the extensions which Morgan Bros. would enable him to make.

He decided that they should buy the fish shop-at his own price.

"Hum!" he said. "That is quite interesting. Only, I am wondering why they took you into their confidence."

"Mr. Morgan didn't," said Bonnie. "But one evening when we were in the cake shop, that foxy-faced lawyer of his came in and talked to him in shocking bad French. Mr. Morgan learned his trade in Paris, so he understood all right. And, of course, they couldn't tell I knew French, because I always made Morgan Nephew translate the menu when we had supper together."

"You—speak—French, Miss Doon?" gasped the Major.

"Better than I can speak English." said Bonnie. "You see, Papa is English and Mama is from Jersey. She's French. Papa never talks at all, and Mama talks all the day, so my English isn't too good. That's why all the girls here think me so stupid. They talk of the 'office' when they mean 'bureau,' and when they do say 'bureau' they mean a chest. And when I was told to go to the 'office,' of course, I went to the pantry. It's all so confusing."

"But," the Major's eyes glittered hungrily, "why didn't you tell me you spoke French? It would have been useful."

"That's what Mama said," replied Bonnie simply. "She said, 'Don't let them know you understand a word.' She said they'd stick up a sign 'Ici on parle français.,' and I'd be called here, there, and everywhere, and not get paid a penny more. And I'd never get the chance to learn elegant English if I had to speak French. Oh, Mama knew!"

Suddenly the Major's eyes twinkled. Morgan and Co. had found Bonnie so very easy to dupe.

And yet, the Major had a vision of her sitting in the pastrycook's, with the mahogany counters and bottleglass windows, a lovely lady nibbling jam puffs—her blue eyes dreamy as though her thoughts were far away, while no word of the low gabble of French escaped her shell-like ears.

The Major began to laugh. Bonnie was green—green as grass. But she had plenty of ginger.

She was Green Ginger.


BONNIE started up at the distant sound of a telephone bell.

"It's in the Salon. May I go? I think it's someone for me."

A minute later she was listening to Pomeroy's voice, which was jubilant but unfamiliar.

"What's the matter with my voice? Oh, just a thick lip, or something. What? You've told the Major? Excellent! Now I can touch him for a rise, as I want to get married. And—listen, Bonnie!—I've got a corking inspiration for a wedding-dress. Her name is 'Gloria,' and she suggests purity, peace, and perfect love. She came to me just as I gave Morgan his second black eye!"


THE END


Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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