He had come to the end of a line and not understanding the bell’s signal, was trying to keep on writing. He saw that something was wrong, and he turned to Frances again. She had been watching him, and was ready to explain at once. “I’ve never tried one of these infernal things before,” he remarked, quite unnecessarily. “I’ve been at it for two months,” said Frances, with a sigh, “but I don’t seem to get on. Not like the others.” He looked at her thoroughly for the first time. “You’re _not_ like the others,” he said, “that’s probably why.” And added: “You look like an English girl.” That meant that he was pleased, she knew. “I’m not. I’m American--as far back as the Revolution.” “What revolution?” he asked. With the characteristic innocence of her country-people, whose Genesis it is, she was astounded. “Why, _our_ Revolution! In 1776!” she explained. He said “Really!” and went on with his writing. The next night he saluted her with a stiff “Good evening!” directly she entered the room, so formal and frigid that her heart sank. They weren’t friendly, then! But, after half an hour’s desperate effort, he grew bored and discouraged, and once more turned his attention to the pretty girl. “You’re doing well,” he observed. Frances gave a sigh and smiled at him. “I hate it!” she said. “Rather! But why do you do it?” “I want to get on--get a better job.” “What are you doing now?” He was, she thought, very personal, but he didn’t seem aware of it. “I’m a secretary, for an authoress.” That seemed to interest him. “I’d thought of something of that sort for myself,” he said. “What do they expect of a secretary over here?” “My position’s rather peculiar,” Frances told him. “I do all sorts of things that aren’t really part of my duties.” “What, for instance? Can’t you give me some sort of idea?” he persisted, and, half-laughing, she tried to tell him. “Oh, I go shopping with her,” she said, “and I listen while she reads, and I get up little chafing-dish suppers, and answer the telephone, and check up her bank book, and talk to her publishers, and--oh, well--lots of things like that!” “I shouldn’t call that a secretary,” said the young man. “At home we’d call you a sort of companion.” Frances turned red, and began typing again. He was rude, and no mistake about it. Detestable! She worked violently for a time, then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him, pecking away at his typewriter so slowly and stupidly that her heart smote her. “Good night!” she said cheerfully when the gong sounded, and she went off to the dictation class and he to the beginner’s room, where she could see him through the open door, writing on the arm of his chair, surrounded by eager children. III