She was pale—­so pale that it brought out strongly the smooth dead-white purity of her skin.  Her small features wore an expression of pride, of haughtiness even.  And in the eyes that regarded him steadily there shone a cold light—­the light of a proud and lonely soul that repels intrusion even as the Polar fastnesses push back without effort assault upon their solitudes.  “We made no arrangement,” said she.

“You are not more than eighteen, are you?” inquired he abruptly.

The irrelevant question startled her.  She looked as if she thought she had not heard aright.  “I am twenty,” she said.

“You have a most—­most unusual way of shifting to various ages and personalities,” explained he, with some embarrassment.

She simply looked at him and waited.

His embarrassment increased.  It was a novel sensation to him, this feeling ill at ease with a woman—­he who was at ease with everyone and put others at their ease or not as he pleased.  “I’m sorry you and Miss Burroughs didn’t arrange something.  I suppose she found the hours difficult.”

“She made me an offer,” replied the girl.  “I refused it.”

“But, as I told you, we can let you off—­anything within reason.”

“Thank you, but I do not care to do that kind of work.  No doubt any kind of work for wages classes one as a servant.  But those people up there—­they make one feel it—­feel menial.”

“Not Miss Burroughs, I assure you.”

A satirical smile hovered round the girl’s lips.  Her face was altogether lovely now, and no lily ever rose more gracefully from its stem than did her small head from her slender form.  “She meant to be kind, but she was insulting.  Those people up there don’t understand.  They’re vain and narrow.  Oh, I don’t blame them.  Only, I don’t care to be brought into contact with them.”

He looked at her in wonder.  She talked of Josephine as if she were Josephine’s superior, and her expression and accent were such that they contrived to convey an impression that she had the right to do it.  He grew suddenly angry at her, at himself for listening to her.  “I am sorry,” he said stiffly, and took up a pen to indicate that he wished her to go.

He rather expected that she would be alarmed.  But if she was, she wholly concealed it.  She smiled slightly and moved toward the door.  Looking after her, he relented.  She seemed so young—­was so young—­and was evidently poor.  He said: 

“It’s all right to be proud, Miss Hallowell.  But there is such a thing as supersensitiveness.  You are earning your living.  If you’ll pardon me for thrusting advice upon you, I think you’ve made a mistake.  I’m sure Miss Burroughs meant well.  If you had been less sensitive you’d soon have realized it.”

“She patronized me,” replied the girl, not angrily, but with amusement.  “It was all I could do not to laugh in her face.  The idea of a woman who probably couldn’t make five dollars a week fancying she was the superior of any girl who makes her own living, no matter how poor a living it is.”