At precisely eleven o’clock the buzzer on Claire Robson’s desk hummed three times.  This announced that she was wanted by Mr. Flint.  She gathered her note-book and pencils and answered the call.

Mr. Flint was busy at the telephone when Claire entered the private office.  She seated herself at the flat oak table in the center of the room.

Mr. Flint’s office bore all the conventional signs of business—­commissions of authority from insurance companies, state licenses in oak frames, an oil-painting of Thomas Sawyer Flint, the founder of the firm, over a fireplace that maintained its useless dignity in spite of the steam-radiator near the window.  On his desk was the inevitable picture of his wife framed in silver, a hand-illumined platitude of Stevenson, an elaborate set of desk paraphernalia in beaten brass that bore little evidence of service.  In two green-glazed bowls of Japanese origin, roses from Mr. Flint’s garden at Yolanda scattered faint pink petals on the Smyrna rug.  These flowers were the only concession to esthetics that Mr. Flint indulged.  In spite of a masculine distaste for carrying flowers, hardly a day went by when he did not appear at the office with a huge harvest of blossoms from his country home.

Claire was bending over, intent on picking up the crumpled rose-petals, when Mr. Flint finally spoke.  She straightened herself slowly.  Her unhurried movements had a certain grace that did not escape the man opposite her.  She tossed the bruised leaves into a waste-basket and reached for her pencil.  Her heart was pounding, but she faced Mr. Flint with a clear, direct gaze.

“Miss Robson, of course you’ve heard all about the rumpus,” Mr. Flint was saying.  “I had to fire Miss Whitehead....  I think you can fill the bill.”

Claire rose without replying.  Mr. Flint left his seat and crossed over to her.

“I hope,” he said, flicking a thread from her shoulder, “that you’re game....  Some girls, of course, don’t care a damn about getting on ... especially if there’s a Johnny somewhere in sight with enough cash in his pocket for a marriage license.”

“I am very much taken by surprise,” Claire faltered.  “You see, the change means a great deal to me.”

Mr. Flint moved closer.  His manner was intimate and distasteful.  “Sometimes I think we business men ought to get more of a slant on our employees....  You know what I mean, not exactly bothering about how many lumps of sugar they take in their coffee, or their taste in after-dinner cheese ... but, well, just how often they have to resole their boots and turn the ribbons on their spring bonnets....  Now, in Miss Whitehead’s case....  But of course you’re not interested in Miss Whitehead.”

“Why, I wouldn’t say that,” stammered Claire.  Then, as she reached for her shorthand book she said, more confidently:  “To be quite frank, Mr. Flint, I liked Miss Whitehead tremendously.  She was so alive ... and vivid.”