A couple of years ago I should have used the shibboleth of my set at home to describe these same girls—“Terrible!—Impossible!” I should have noticed nothing about them beyond their cheap “stock” clothes and the Cockney accents that used to be such an hourly jar to my nerves. I shouldn’t have differentiated the sentimental “Smithie” from Miss Robinson, who has more capacity in her carbon-stained little finger than most of the girls who were with me at Wycombe Abbey had in their heads. I should scarcely have considered them of the same race of being as myself, and as for being on friendly, talkative terms with them—Well, having to fend for oneself in the labour-market does knock a good deal of the nonsense out of one. Here I was, quite annoyed at the prospect of giving up the companionship of the three for the afternoons! Still, it would be worth it. My employer would be as good as his word about the five hundred pounds. He’d open an account for me. And at lunch-time I shall be able to cable that much-needed hundred to Cape Town. I’m to begin earning it as private clerk—to a living tape-machine! “Yes. That will be quite the best plan,” he went on. “That will pave the way for it.” His tone became if anything more “scientifically diagrammatic” still as he said, “To-day is May fourteen; let me see—How long do you suppose it would take before it would be considered the natural thing for me to fall in love with you?” “‘Natural’? How could it ever be considered natural” was on the tip of my tongue, “for you to fall in love with anybody?—You, who think it ought to be mapped out into a certain number of days, like that sum about ‘_twenty reapers reaping so many acres in a week_.’” Primly I answered aloud, “I should think you could please yourself, Mr. Waters.” “Well, we will see about that presently,” said my employer, turning to the desk. “And now there is this——” After speaking about “the time it took to fall in love,” I thought he’d reached his limit. But no. He went further. From a drawer that he unlocked he took out a paper that he handed to me. “I have taken the precaution of having our whole arrangement put down in black-and-white, if you will kindly sign it here.” —“In _black-and-white!_”—“_sign——!_” I felt the angry colour surging up into my face; I was all the more furious because I dare not show the real rage I was in. “Oh, yes. I’ll sign it,” I said, with desperate meekness, “if you really think it’s necessary. If you imagine that I am the kind of girl who might take advantage of our—our contract afterwards, sue you for breach of promise, or——” “Come, come!” Still Waters interrupted briskly, peremptorily. “It’s just because I didn’t think you were ‘that kind of girl,’ amongst other reasons, that I selected you for my post. This instrument is drawn up largely on your own account. You have a pen——?”