One morning, signing up letters, he came upon an I shall. Glancing quickly over the page for similar constructions, he found a number of I wills. The I shall was alone. It stood out conspicuously. He pressed the call-bell twice, and a moment later Dede Mason entered. "Did I say that, Miss Mason?" he asked, extending the letter to her and pointing out the criminal phrase. A shade of annoyance crossed her face. She stood convicted. "My mistake," she said. "I am sorry. But it's not a mistake, you know," she added quickly. "How do you make that out?" challenged Daylight. "It sure don't sound right, in my way of thinking." She had reached the door by this time, and now turned the offending letter in her hand. "It's right just the same." "But that would make all those I wills wrong, then," he argued. "It does," was her audacious answer. "Shall I change them?" "I shall be over to look that affair up on Monday." Daylight repeated the sentence from the letter aloud. He did it with a grave, serious air, listening intently to the sound of his own voice. He shook his head. "It don't sound right, Miss Mason. It just don't sound right. Why, nobody writes to me that way. They all say I will--educated men, too, some of them. Ain't that so?" "Yes," she acknowledged, and passed out to her machine to make the correction. It chanced that day that among the several men with whom he sat at luncheon was a young Englishman, a mining engineer. Had it happened any other time it would have passed unnoticed, but, fresh from the tilt with his stenographer, Daylight was struck immediately by the Englishman's I shall. Several times, in the course of the meal, the phrase was repeated, and Daylight was certain there was no mistake about it. After luncheon he cornered Macintosh, one of the members whom he knew to have been a college man, because of his football reputation. "Look here, Bunny," Daylight demanded, "which is right, I shall be over to look that affair up on Monday, or I will be over to look that affair up on Monday?" The ex-football captain debated painfully for a minute. "Blessed if I know," he confessed. "Which way do I say it?" "Oh, I will, of course." "Then the other is right, depend upon it. I always was rotten on grammar." On the way back to the office, Daylight dropped into a bookstore and bought a grammar; and for a solid hour, his feet up on the desk, he toiled through its pages. "Knock off my head with little apples if the girl ain't right," he communed aloud at the end of the session. For the first time it struck him that there was something about his stenographer. He had accepted her up to then, as a female creature and a bit of office furnishing. But now, having demonstrated that she knew more grammar than did business men and college graduates, she became an individual. She seemed to stand out in his consciousness as conspicuously as the I shall had stood out on the typed page, and he began to take notice.