V

Toward noon the following day Norman, suddenly in need of a stenographer, sent out for Miss Purdy, one of the three experts at eighteen dollars a week who did most of the important and very confidential work for the heads of the firm.  When his door opened again he saw not Miss Purdy but Miss Hallowell.

“Miss Purdy is sick to-day,” said she.  “Mr. Tetlow wishes to know if I would do.”

Norman shifted uneasily in his chair.  “Just as well—­perfectly—­certainly,” he stammered.  He was not looking at her—­seemed wholly occupied with the business he was preparing to dispatch.

She seated herself in the usual place, at the opposite side of the broad table.  With pencil poised she fixed her gaze upon the unmarred page of her open notebook.  Instead of abating, his confusion increased.  He could not think of the subject about which he wished to dictate.  First, he noted how long her lashes were—­and darker than her hair, as were her well-drawn eyebrows also.  Never had he seen so white a skin or one so smooth.  She happened to be wearing a blouse with a Dutch neck that day.  What a superb throat!  What a line of beauty its gently swelling curve made.  Then his glance fell upon her lips, rosy-red, slightly pouted.  And what masses of dead gold hair—­no, not gold, but of the white-gray of wood ashes, and tinted with gold!  No wonder it was difficult to tell just what color her hair was.  Hair like that was ready to be of any color.  And there were her arms, so symmetrical in her rather tight sleeves, and emerging into view in the most delicate wrists.  What a marvelous skin!

“Have you ever posed?”

She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks.  Her eyes shot a glance of terror at him.  “I—­I,” she stammered.  Then almost defiantly, “Yes, I did—­for a while.  But I didn’t suppose anyone knew.  At the time we needed the money badly.”

Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such a question, and for having surprised her secret.  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said gently.

“Oh, I’m not ashamed,” she returned.  Her agitation had subsided.  “The only reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the pay small and uncertain.  I was confused because they discharged me at the last place I had, when they found out I had been a model.  It was a church paper office.”

Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes.  But he did not take the hint.  “Is there anything you would rather do than this sort of work?” he asked.

“Nothing I could afford,” replied she.

“If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helped you.”

“I couldn’t afford to do that,” said the girl in her quiet, reticent way.

“To do what?”

“To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it.”

Norman smiled somewhat cynically.  Probably the girl fancied she was truthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves.  “What would you like to do?”