“Shut the door, please, Miss—­er—­Miss Child,” said he.  And the cherubic eyes gazing from under the fierce contradiction of heavy eyebrows up to the tall girl’s face conveyed to her mind that “please” was a tribute.  Also, she suddenly knew that the superintendent had hesitated over her name on purpose.  A man in a high position may wish to be agreeable to a girl beneath him, at the same time informing her that she is of no vast importance.

With a certain stiff young dignity Win shut the office door.

“You may as well sit down.  I want to talk to you.”

She sat down in the chair of Mr. Meggison’s absent stenographer.  By this time the pink of her cheeks had deepened to red.  She was wondering more than ever what he was going to do, and what she would do when he had done it.  But as she sat facing him she realized that she was no longer afraid.  She felt a sense of power and resource.

“Are you surprised that I remember your name, Miss Child?” he asked.

“I don’t know the custom,” she replied primly.  Would he expect her to say “Sir?” Anyhow, she wouldn’t!  She compromised with a dainty meekness which might be interpreted as respect for a superior.  Mr. Meggison fixed her with a sharp look which would have detected the impudence of a lurking laugh.

“That’s a funny answer,” said he.  “You ‘don’t know the custom!’ Well, my idea of you is, you don’t know much about any business customs, on our side of the water or yours either.”  As he spoke he watched her face to catch any guilty flicker of an eyelid.  “I want you to tell me what was your idea in going for a job with us.”

“I saw your advertisement for extra hands.”

“The woods—­I mean the papers—­are full of advertisements.  What made you pick out ours?”

“I’d tried to get other things and failed.”

“So we were a last resort, eh?”

“I thought first of being a governess or a companion or getting into a public library or—­things of that sort.”

“Why not the stage?  You’re a good-looking girl, with a figure.”

“I promised my father I wouldn’t go on the stage.  But, anyhow, I don’t suppose I could have got on—­an amateur like me.  Every place in New York seems full up.  And I have no training of any sort.”

“Just a young lady, eh?”

Win smiled.  “I never thought of it as a profession—­or a label.”

He looked slightly puzzled, and when Mr. Meggison was puzzled by an employee, he was generally annoyed.  This case seemed, however, to be an exception.  He kept his temper, and even condescended to grin.

“I don’t want you should think I’m asking all these questions because we have any fault to find with you,” he said.  “You’ve done very well.  I always know what’s going on all over the place.  I keep track of everything in every department.  I wouldn’t be where I am if I wasn’t up to that.  I called you here partly to compliment you on your smartness in that little stunt of the first day.  And you’ve gone on all right since, all right.  These things don’t get lost in the wash.  But before I come to that I’m bound to tell you that the report’s come up to me you’re a spy.”