She remembered one of the stories she
had loved best as a child--the story of the task Venus set for Psyche
before she could be worthy of Cupid, the lover whose wings she had
burned with a drop of oil from her lamp. Now the girl, grown out of
childhood, understood how Psyche had felt when told to count the
grains of wheat in Venus's granary within a certain time limit.
"Well, anyhow, Psyche didn't ask questions, and I won't," she said to
herself. "The kind ants came and told her things: maybe the sardine
will come to me."
Looking almost preternaturally intelligent and pleased with life, Win
accepted the key and check book, and learned with a shock that, as one
of Peter Rolls's hands, she was No. 2884.
CHAPTER IX
THE TEST OF CHARACTER
The sardine's ears must have been sharp, for although the lion tamer
was between her and Win (like a thick chunk of ham in a thin
sandwich), she had heard something of the conversation at the
superintendent's window.
"Try the basement bargain counters for your dress; you'll get it
cheaper," she flung after the tall Effect in a shrill whisper as the
newly engaged hand flashed by.
There wasn't a second, or even half a second to lose, yet Win
slackened her pace to say "Thank you.
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