"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Your father was one of the few men I have ever really liked." After a while she broached the subject of her visit. It was not a task she relished, for she was desperately afraid he would misunderstand. His face remained inscrutable, but the blue eyes searched her face. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the table. She learnt afterwards that this was a trick of his when he was embarrassed. "What can you do?" he asked. "Shorthand--book-keeping--type-writing--anything?" "Nothing, I'm afraid." She had realised all along the hopeless inadequacy of her qualifications, and felt unnecessarily small and foolish. "But I could learn." "There are hundreds of girls who have learnt--still looking for jobs," he said. His finger-tips played an intricate tattoo. "Listen--you're afraid I'll offer you money. Feel insulted if I do--probably walk out in a rage. Still, I wish you'd let me. I've got heaps. I like money--I'd like more--and I don't often give it away. But you're different. I'd have done it for your father, any day--why not for you?" Strangely enough, she was not annoyed. His nervousness was so amusing. He was obviously as scared of making a _faux pas_ as she was of his making one, and he didn't know how to do it without seeming to. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm looking for work, not outdoor relief." "I know all about that," he said peevishly. "You wouldn't have minded taking it from your father." "That's different," she said, and he was not foolish enough to attempt to argue the point further. He turned over some papers, picked up a pencil, and played with it. There was an unusual quality about these little mannerisms of his: they were never jerky and inconsequent, like the fidgeting of a different kind of man. He seemed to employ material objects to assist his thoughts. "I want a typist," he said at length. "You can get reasonably proficient in a fortnight if you work hard. No need for much speed, anyhow--no dictation. Copying letters, etcetera. You can have the job if you'll be my guest here while you're learning. That's not charity--you'd accept an invitation like that even if you weren't broke. Use the house how you like--I'm going to Geneva. League of Nations conferences--all rot. However ... housekeeper's always here. Your reputation's all right. But while I'm away--no wild parties, mind!" He issued the order with such a comical seriousness that she all but laughed aloud. "I'll try to reform," she promised gravely.