"Well," she said desperately, "I've come for work." He stared at her, refixing his monocle. "You've come for work my dear old--my jolly old--young miss?" "I've come for work," she nodded. Bones's face was very grave. "You've come for work." He thought a moment; then: "What work? Of course," he added in a flurry, "there's plenty of work to do! Believe me, you don't know the amount I get through in this sanctum--that's Latin for 'private office'--and the wretched old place is never tidy--never! I am seriously thinking"--he frowned--"yes, I am very seriously thinking of sacking the lady who does the dusting. Why, do you know, this morning----" Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones's unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes sophisticated, superhumanly lovely. "I haven't come for a dusting job," she laughed. "Of course you haven't," said Bones in a panic. "My dear old lady--my precious--my young person, I should have said--of course you haven't! You've come for a job--you've come to work! Well, you shall have it! Start right away!" She stared. "What shall I do?" she asked. "What would I like you to do?" said Bones slowly. "What about scheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright----" He trailed off feebly as she shook her head. "Do you want a secretary?" she asked, and Bones's enthusiasm rose to the squeaking point. "The very thing! I advertised in this morning's _Times_. You saw the advertisement?" "You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyes that danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in _The Times_ this morning, and I am quite sure that you did not advertise." "I meant to advertise," said Bones gently. "I had the idea last night; that's the very piece of paper I was writing the advertisement on." He pointed to a sheet upon the pad. "A secretary? The very thing! Let me think." He supported his chin upon one hand, his elbow upon another. "You will want paper, pens, and ink--we have all those," he said. "There is a large supply in that cupboard. Also india-rubber. I am not sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And a ruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort of thing." "And a typewriter?" she suggested. Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence. "A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Ali yesterday: 'You silly old ass----'" "Oh, you have a girl?" she said disappointedly. "Ali," said Bones, "is the name of a native man person who is devoted to me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family for years," he explained. "Oh, it's a man," she said. Bones nodded. "Ali. Spelt A-l-y; it's Arabic." "A native?" Bones nodded. "Of course he will not be in your way," ha hastened to explain. "He is in Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "and then he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don't you?"