When the curtain fell several people came into the box, and he went to make a few calls round the parterre.  He returned after the second act.  They were again alone—­the deaf old aunt did not count.  At once Josephine began upon the same subject.  With studied indifference—­how amusing for a woman of her inexperience to try to fool a man of his experience!—­she said: 

“Tell me some more about that typewriter girl.  Women who work always interest me.”

“She wouldn’t,” said Norman.  The subject had been driven clean out of his mind, and he didn’t wish to return to it.  “Some day they will venture to make judicious long cuts in Wagner’s operas, and then they’ll be interesting.  It always amuses me, this reverence of little people for the great ones—­as if a great man were always great.  No—­he is always great.  But often it’s in a dull way.  And the dull parts ought to be skipped.”

“I don’t like the opera this evening,” said she.  “What you said a while ago has set me to thinking.  Is that girl a lady?”

“She works,” laughed he.

“But she might have been a lady.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Don’t you know anything about her?”

“Except that she’s trustworthy—­and insignificant and not too good at her business.”

“I shouldn’t think you could afford to keep incompetent people,” said the girl shrewdly.

“Perhaps they won’t keep her,” parried Norman gracefully.  “The head clerk looks after those things.”

“He probably likes her.”

“No,” said Norman, too indifferent to be cautious.  “She has no ‘gentlemen friends.’”

“How do you know that?” said the girl, and she could not keep a certain sharpness out of her voice.

“Tetlow, the head clerk, told me.  I asked him a few questions about her.  I had some confidential work to do and didn’t want to trust her without being sure.”

He saw that she was now prey to her jealous suspicion.  He was uncertain whether to be amused or irritated.  She had to pause long and with visible effort collect herself before venturing: 

“Oh, she does confidential work for you?  I thought you said she was incompetent.”

He, the expert cross-examiner, had to admire her skill at that high science and art.  “I felt sorry for her,” he said.  “She seemed such a forlorn little creature.”

She laughed with a constrained attempt at raillery.  “I never should have suspected you of such weakness.  To give confidential things to a forlorn little incompetent, out of pity.”

He was irritated, distinctly.  The whole thing was preposterous.  It reminded him of feats of his own before a jury.  By clever questioning, Josephine had made about as trifling an incident as could be imagined take on really quite imposing proportions.  There was annoyance in his smile as he said: 

“Shall I send her up to see you?  You might find it amusing, and maybe you could do something for her.”