He managed to watch her leaving that afternoon, and he was aware for the first time that she was well-formed, and that her manner of dress was satisfying. He knew none of the details of women's dress, and he saw none of the details of her neat shirt-waist and well-cut tailor suit. He saw only the effect in a general, sketchy way. She looked right. This was in the absence of anything wrong or out of the way. "She's a trim little good-looker," was his verdict, when the outer office door closed on her. The next morning, dictating, he concluded that he liked the way she did her hair, though for the life of him he could have given no description of it. The impression was pleasing, that was all. She sat between him and the window, and he noted that her hair was light brown, with hints of golden bronze. A pale sun, shining in, touched the golden bronze into smouldering fires that were very pleasing to behold. Funny, he thought, that he had never observed this phenomenon before. In the midst of the letter he came to the construction which had caused the trouble the day before. He remembered his wrestle with the grammar, and dictated. "I shall meet you halfway this proposition--" Miss Mason gave a quick look up at him. The action was purely involuntary, and, in fact, had been half a startle of surprise. The next instant her eyes had dropped again, and she sat waiting to go on with the dictation. But in that moment of her glance Daylight had noted that her eyes were gray. He was later to learn that at times there were golden lights in those same gray eyes; but he had seen enough, as it was, to surprise him, for he became suddenly aware that he had always taken her for a brunette with brown eyes, as a matter of course. "You were right, after all," he confessed, with a sheepish grin that sat incongruously on his stern, Indian-like features. Again he was rewarded by an upward glance and an acknowledging smile, and this time he verified the fact that her eyes were gray. "But it don't sound right, just the same," he complained. At this she laughed outright. "I beg your pardon," she hastened to make amends, and then spoiled it by adding, "but you are so funny." Daylight began to feel a slight awkwardness, and the sun would persist in setting her hair a-smouldering. "I didn't mean to be funny," he said. "That was why I laughed. But it is right, and perfectly good grammar." "All right," he sighed--"I shall meet you halfway in this proposition--got that?" And the dictation went on. He discovered that in the intervals, when she had nothing to do, she read books and magazines, or worked on some sort of feminine fancy work. Passing her desk, once, he picked up a volume of Kipling's poems and glanced bepuzzled through the pages. "You like reading, Miss Mason?" he said, laying the book down. "Oh, yes," was her answer; "very much." Another time it was a book of Wells', The Wheels of Change. "What's it all about?" Daylight asked.