“Oh, yes—­and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I’m not taking the place he got for me.”

“Be careful what you say to him,” cautioned Norman.  “You must see it wouldn’t be well to tell him what you are going to do.  There’s no reason on earth why he should know your business—­is there?”

She did not reply; she was reflecting.

“You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow—­are you?”

“No,” she said.  “I don’t love him—­and couldn’t learn to.”

With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said:  “Why not?  It would be a good match.”

“I don’t love him,” she repeated, as if that were a sufficient and complete answer.  And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it, also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught him to regard as common sense about human nature.

“You can simply say to Tetlow that you’ve decided to stay at home and take care of your father.  The offices of the company will be at your house.  Your official duties practically amount to taking care of your father.  So you’ll be speaking the truth.”

“Oh, it isn’t exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has no right to know it.  What you suggest isn’t quite the truth.  But it’s near enough, and I’ll say it to him.”

His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed.  Also, he had no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if the falsehood were necessary to his purposes.  Yet her statement of her code, moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered her once more in his estimation.  He was eager to find reason or plausible excuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be.  Immediately the prospects of his ultimate projects—­whatever they might prove to be—­took on a more hopeful air.  “And I’d advise you to have Tetlow keep away from you.  We don’t want him nosing round.”

“No, indeed,” said she.  “He is a nice man, but tiresome.  And if I encouraged him ever so little, he’d be sentimental.  The most tiresome thing in the world to a girl is a man who talks that sort of thing when she doesn’t want to hear it—­from him.”

He laughed.  “Meaning me?” he suggested.

She nodded, much pleased.  “Perhaps,” she replied.

“Don’t worry about that,” mocked he.

“I shan’t till I have to,” she assured him.  “And I don’t think I’ll have to.”

* * * * *

On the Monday morning following, Tetlow came in to see Norman as soon as he arrived.  “I want a two weeks’ leave,” he said.  “I’m going to Bermuda or down there somewhere.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” cried Norman.  “You do look ill, old man.”

“I saw her last night,” replied the chief clerk, dropping an effort at concealing his dejection.  “She—­she turned me down.”

“Really?  You?” Norman’s tone of sympathetic surprise would not have deceived half attentive ears.  But Tetlow was securely absorbed.  “Why, Billy, she can’t hope to make as good a match.”