He cut the string and looked at a few of the sheets. The typing was perfect. He began to express his approval but she interrupted him.
"It's better stuff than I expected," she declared grudgingly. "I thought you were only one of these miserable amateurs. Where did you learn to write like that?"
Somehow, her praise was like a tonic.
"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh! my likes or dislikes don't matter," she replied. "It's good stuff. You'll find the account in there. If you'd like to pay me, I'd like to have the money."
He glanced at the neat little bill and took out his pocketbook.
"Sit down for a minute," he begged. "I'm stuck this morning—can't write a line. Take my easy-chair and smoke a cigarette—I have nothing else to offer you."
For a moment she seemed about to refuse. Then she flung herself into his easy-chair, took a cigarette, and, holding it between her lips, almost scarlet against the pallor of her cheeks, stretched upwards towards the match which he was holding.
"Stella and her boy were over to see me last night," she announced, a little abruptly.
"The young lady with the ermines," he murmured.
"And her boy, Felix Martin. It was through him they came—I could see that all right. He was trying all the time to pump me about you."
"About me?"
"Oh! you needn't trouble to look surprised," she
