I took it out of the case fastened to the front of my very utilitarian blue delaine blouse. I hate wearing it there. I always look upon it as the sign of servitude and the mark of the beast, but it’s the custom—and business-like. “Right. Now, Miss Trant, I think that’s all for this morning. You can arrange to come in and take down my letters each afternoon at a quarter to three, beginning to-morrow.” “Yes,” I said, in my meekest tone. * * * * * Loud were the murmurs of commiseration that broke from my three friends in my own room when they heard of this novel arrangement. “What, my dear? _You_ to take down his old letters? That’s the Governor’s idea of giving you one more chance, I suppose,” sniffed Miss Robinson, “before he sacks you! Pity he didn’t tell you to go, and get it over yesterday!” “He’s simply impossible to please. Why, when I come here first,” said Miss Holt, “he had had three girls at it in one week and they all came out in tears because the Machine had snapped their heads off. For one thing, he dictates at such a rate that I don’t know how he expects anyone to follow him without they have to ask him to repeat it, and _then_ he glowers at you like a Gordian! See if he doesn’t!” “It’ll be ‘_Now, Miss Trant!_’” mimicked Miss Robinson, gabbling at top-speed. “‘_Got that? Go on_— “‘_We can offer no further explanation of same beyond facts already supplied, and are of opinion that there is nothing to be gained by prolonging this correspondence._’ Certainly nothing to be gained by you, my poor dear!” “No, he’ll be sending for that stolid Scotch Sandy back before the afternoon’s over!” “Don’t discourage the girl too much before she starts. Still, I wish you weren’t forsaking our room for the afternoons, Miss Trant. We shall miss your merry prattle and your footstep on the stair.” “Yes, and there won’t be much prattling for you in there,” said Miss Smith. “More like sitting among the mummies and sphinxes and things in the British Museum. Girls, can you imagine Still Waters ‘prattling’ to anybody, even as a little boy?” “That man was never anything so human as a little boy,” declared Miss Robinson. “He was created grown-up and ready-made and put together like a Remington. Probably in the very act of clicking out— “‘_Contract B.954. Our buyers advise us as under_,’ and so on. “I wouldn’t mind what I betted that _he_ never cried over going to school for the first time, or began to fancy himself more when he’d sat out at a dance and flirted——” “_Flirted!_ The Governor!” I put in—quite forgetting What would presumably be my cue very soon, and laughing with the others. “You might just as well think of him falling really desperately in love with——” “_Talk_-ing, ladies,” broke in the usual voice, followed by the usual lull. But the usual twinge of fear didn’t visit me this time.