“He still smells nice,” thought Mary to herself, “and I think he’s handsomer than ever—­if it wasn’t for that dark look around his eyes—­and even that becomes him.”  She motioned to a chair and seated herself at the desk.

“I thought you’d like to have a place down here to call your own,” he said in his lazy voice.  “I didn’t make much of a hit with the governor, but then you know I seldom do—­”

“Where did you get the pictures?”

“From the photographers’.  Of course it required influence, but I am full of that—­being connected, as you may know, with Spencer & Son.  When I told him why I wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as I was to find the old plates.”

“And the fire and the rugs and everything—­you don’t know how I appreciate it all.  I had no idea—­”

“I like surprises, myself,” he said.  “I suppose that’s why I like to surprise others.  The keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and I have set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer.  If you want anybody or anything—­to write a letter—­to see the governor—­or even to see your humble servant—­all you have to do is to press this button.”

A wave of gratitude swept over her.

“He’s nice,” she thought, as Burdon continued his agreeable drawl.  “But Helen says he’s wicked.  I wonder if he is....  Imagine him thinking of the pictures:  I’m sure that doesn’t sound wicked, and...  Oh, dear!....Yes, he did it again, then!...  He—­he’s making eyes at me as much as he dares!...”

She turned and opened a drawer of the desk.

“I think I’ll take the papers home and sort them there,” she said.

“You’re sure there’s nothing more I can do?” he asked, rising.

“Nothing more; thank you.”

“That window behind you is open at the top.  You may feel a draft; I’ll shut it.”

In his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the evenings and hold classes which were strictly outside the regular course.

“It’s simply pathetic,” one of the girls had once remarked, “but nearly every man you meet makes love the same way.  Talk about sausage for breakfast every morning in the year.  It’s worse than that!

“First you catch it in their eye and in their voice:  ’Are you sure you’re comfortable?’ ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’ ’Are you sure you don’t feel a draft?’ That’s Chapter One.

“Then they try to touch you—­absent-mindedly putting their arms along the back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like that.  That’s always Chapter Two.

“And then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you.  Honestly, the sameness of it is enough to drive a girl wild.  Sometimes I say to myself, ’The next time a man looks at me that way and asks me if I feel a draft, I’m going to say, ’Oh, please let’s dispense with Chapter Two and pass directly to the nice, secluded place.  It will be such a change from the usual routine!’”