'By Jove! an excellent idea. Here's one of the free and independent electors of G--writes to ask what my views are on the subject of compulsory vaccination. Do pen a reply and I'll sign it.' 'But what am I to say?' 'The ghost of Jenner alone knows I offer it as an opportunity to show your fitness for this post. You have applied to me for work, Miss--Miss Redwing, I think your name is?' He assumed the air of one applied to. 'It is, sir.' 'Come, come; that's far too jaunty. You don't at all understand the position of the person applying for work. You must be profoundly depressed; there must be half a tear in your eye; you must look hungry.' 'O dear--I had such an excellent breakfast!' 'Which clearly disqualifies you for the post you seek. However, Miss--Miss Redwing, I think you said?' 'I did, sir.' 'Vastly better. The applicant must always be a little ashamed of his name; they learn that, you know, from the way in which they are addressed by employers. Well, I'll give you a hint. Tell him he's an ass, or he wouldn't have needed to ask my opinion.' 'I am to put that into parliamentary language?' 'Precisely.' 'And say nothing more definite?' 'Really Miss--Miss Redwing, I begin to doubt the genuineness of your testimonials. You surely have learnt that the first essential of the art of public letter-writing is to say nothing whatever in as convincing a manner as possible.' 'But if I tell him he's a--a donkey?' 'You fear it will be deviating into truth. There's something in that. Say, then, that the matter is occupying my gravest attention, and that I hope to be able to reply definitely in the course of a few weeks.' 'Very well. Where may I sit? But I can't use a quill, dear boy.' 'Miss Redwing!' 'Oh, I forgot myself. Have you a nice, fine point, not too hard?' 'Let me see.' Wilfrid unlocked one of the drawers in his desk. As he drew it out, Beatrice stole to him, and peeped into the drawer. 'How neat, Wilfrid!' she exclaimed. 'What a pretty pocket-book that is lying there. Do let me look at it.' It was a morocco case, with an elastic band round it. Beatrice stretched her hand towards it, but he arrested her movement. 'No, no,' he said, playfully, 'we can't have prying. Here are the pens.' 'But do let me look at the case, Wilfrid.' He began to close the drawer. Beatrice laid her hand on it. 'My aunt gave it me, long ago,' Wilfrid said, as if to dismiss the subject. 'Mind! I shall trap your fingers.' 'I'm sure you won't do that. But I do want to see it. The smell of morocco is so delicious. Just one whiff of it.' 'Then you want to smell it, not to see it. If you're good, you shall before you go away.' 'No, but now!--Wilfrid!' He was pretending to squeeze her fingers in the shutting of the drawer. She would not undo her grasp. 'Why mayn't I, Wilfrid?' She looked at him. His expression was graver than became the incident; he was trying to smile, but Beatrice saw that his eyes and lips were agitated.