TOWARD noon the following day Norman, suddenly in need of a stenographer, sent out for Miss Purdy, one of the three experts at eighteen dollars a week who did most of the important and very confidential work for the heads of the firm. When his door opened again he saw not Miss Purdy but Miss Hallowell.
"Miss Purdy is sick to-day," said she. "Mr. Tetlow wishes to know if I would do."
Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. "Just as well--perfectly--certainly," he stammered. He was not looking at her--seemed wholly occupied with the business he was preparing to dispatch.
She seated herself in the usual place, at the opposite side of the broad table. With pencil poised she fixed her gaze upon the unmarred page of her open notebook.
Instead of abating, his confusion increased. He could not think of the subject about which he wished to dictate. First, he noted how long her lashes were--and darker than her hair, as were her well-drawn eyebrows also. Never had he seen so white a skin or one so smooth. She happened to be wearing a blouse with a Dutch neck that day. What a superb throat! What a line of beauty its gently swelling curve made. Then his glance fell upon her lips, rosy-red, slightly pouted.
And what masses of dead gold hair--no, not gold, but of the white-gray of wood ashes, and tinted with gold!
No wonder it was difficult to tell just what color her hair was. Hair like that was ready to be of any color.
And there were her arms, so symmetrical in her rather tight sleeves, and emerging into view in the most delicate wrists. What a marvelous skin!
"Have you ever posed?"
She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes shot a glance of terror at him. "I--I," she stammered. Then almost defiantly, "Yes, I did--for a while.
But I didn't suppose anyone knew. At the time we needed the money badly."
Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such a question, and for having surprised her secret. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said gently.
"Oh, I'm not ashamed," she returned. Her agitation had subsided. "The only reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the pay small and uncertain. I was confused because they discharged me at the last place I had, when they found out I had been a model. It was a church paper office."
Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes.
But he did not take the hint. "Is there anything you would rather do than this sort of work?" he asked.
"Nothing I could afford," replied she.
"If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helped you."
"I couldn't afford to do that," said the girl in her quiet, reticent way.
"To do what?"
"To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it."
Norman smiled somewhat cynically. Probably the girl fancied she was truthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves. "What would you like to do?"
She did not answer his question until she had shrunk completely within herself and was again thickly veiled with the expression which made everyone think her insignificant. "Nothing I could afford to do," said she.
It was plain that she did not wish to be questioned further along that line.
"The stage?" he persisted.
"I hadn't thought of it," was her answer.
"What then?"
"I don't think about things I can't have. I never made any definite plans."
"But isn't it a good idea always to look ahead? As long as one has to be moving, one might as well move in a definite direction."
She was waiting with pencil poised.
"There isn't much of a future at this business."
She shrank slightly. He felt that she regarded his remark as preparation for a kindly hint that she was not giving satisfaction. . . . Well, why not leave it that way? Perhaps she would quit of her own accord--would spare him the trouble--and embarrassment--of arranging with Tetlow for another place for her. He began to dictate--gave her a few sentences mockingly different from his usual terse and clear statements--interrupted himself with:
"You misunderstood me a while ago. I didn't mean you weren't doing your work well. On the contrary, I think you'll soon be expert. But I thought perhaps I might be able to help you to something you'd like better."
He listened to his own words in astonishment. What new freak of madness was this? Instead of clearing himself of this uncanny girl, he was proposing things to her that would mean closer relations. And what reason had he to think she was fitted for anything but just what she was now doing--doing indifferently well?
"Thank you," she said, so quietly that it seemed coldly, "but I'm satisfied as I am."
Her manner seemed to say with polite and restrained plainness that she was not in the least appreciative of his interest or of himself. But this could not be. No girl in her position could fail to be grateful for his interest.
No woman, in all his life, had ever failed to respond to his slightest advance. No, it simply could not be. She was merely shy, and had a peculiar way of showing it.
He said:
"You have no ambition?"
"That's not for a woman."
She was making her replies as brief as civility permitted. He observed her narrowly. She was not shy, not embarrassed. What kind of game was this? It could not be in sincere nature for a person in her position thus to treat overtures, friendly and courteous overtures, from one in his position. And never before--never--had a woman been thus unresponsive. Instead of feeling relief that she had disentangled him from the plight into which his impulsive offer had flung him, he was piqued--angered--and his curiosity was inflamed as never before about any woman.
