"Now, let us see," he said briskly, and sat down before me. "About how much experience have you had?" "I have never been anybody's secretary, if that is what you mean," I said, when I could. "It is not in the least what I mean," he returned. "If you happen not to have been anybody's secretary, I am glad of it. I meant, 'What can you do?'" "I can typewrite," I managed to tell him. "And almost always I can spell." "That's good," he said, "though far from essential. Now what else?" I thought for a moment. "I can keep still," I said. "I don't believe there's anything else I can do." "That makes an admirable beginning," he observed gravely. "Do--do you take down all instructions? In notes?" "I can, if you like," I said. "But I can never read my own notes." "You don't do shorthand?" he cried. For the first time, as I shook my head, it occurred to me that I might not meet his requirements. "Well, now," he was saying, "that is good news. I was afraid you might come with a ruled note-book," he explained. "The flap kind." "No," I said, "I begin at both ends of those. And then I never can find the notes." "Precisely," he said. "Now about your head. Is it likely to ache every few minutes?" "Only when I read the map in an automobile," I answered. "Fortunately," he assured me, "there will be little of that in my requirements. Now the honest truth: Can you work hard? Can you work like a demon if you have to?" "Yes. Unless it has figures in it," I said. "It hasn't," he said. "Or at least, when it has, I shall have to do those myself, for my sins. But I warn you, there's some pretty stiff work ahead. It's a labor survey of China. And I want somebody to do ten hours a day most of the time, showing how like dogs the Chinese workmen are treated." Ten hours a day with him! I sat silent, trying to take in the magnitude of my joy. "It's too much?" he hazarded. "Oh!" I cried. "No. Why no!" He looked up inquiringly. "See the women in this town," I added, "who work ten hours a day and more." "We're going to get along extremely well, then," he said, "if you don't mind my damned irritability--I beg your pardon. I'm shockingly irritable--but," he paused, leaning forward, still grave, "let me tell you, confidentially, now, that I always know it, underneath. You can't mind what I say too awfully, you know, if I put you in possession of that fact to start with. Can you?" "I shan't mind," I said. "Well, you will, you know," he warned me, "but that at least ought to help. I suppose it wouldn't be possible for you to go to work now? This moment?" "Yes, it would," I said, trying hard not to say it too joyfully. "What?" he exclaimed. "Really? Without breaking an engagement? Or telephoning anybody? This is wonderful. Oh, by the way. Let me see your hand when you write." He brought me a pad and pen and ink. "Write anything," he said. "Write." I wrote. He watched me absorbedly and drew a sigh that might have been relief.