Clare sat and waited, and looked round the room for violets, while this young gentleman dictated. His letters were better worded than Lord Pinkerton's, because he was better at the English language. Lord Pinkerton would fall into commercialisms; he would say 're' and 'same' and 'to hand,' and even sometimes 'your favour of the 16th.' His secretary knew that that was not the way in which a great newspaper chief should write. Himself he dictated quite a good letter, but annoyed Jane by putting in the punctuation, as if she was an imbecile. Thus he was saying now, pacing up and down the room, plunged in thought:-- 'Lord Pinkerton is not comma however comma averse to' (Jane wrote 'from') 'entertaining your suggestions comma and will be glad if you can make it convenient to call to-morrow bracket Tuesday close the bracket afternoon comma between three and five stop.' He could not help it; one must make allowances for those who dictate. But Clare saw Jane's teeth release her clenched tongue to permit it to form silently the word 'Ninny.' The private secretary retired into his chief's inner sanctum. 'Morning, old thing,' said Jane to Clare, uncovering her typewriter without haste and yawning, because she had been up late last night. 'Morning,' Clare yawned too. She was warm and pretty, in a spring costume, with a big bunch of sweet violets at her waist. She touched these. 'Aren't they top-hole. Mr. Hobart left them this morning before he went. Jolly decent of him to think of it, getting off in a hurry like he was.... He's not a bad young thing, do you think.' 'Not so bad.' Jane extracted carbons from a drawer and fitted them to her paper. Then she stretched, like a cat. 'Oh, I'm sleepy.... Don't feel like work to-day. For two pins I'd cut it and go out with you and mother. The sun's shining, isn't it?' Clare stood by the window, and swung the blind-tassel. They had five days of Paris before them, and Paris suddenly seemed empty.... 'We're going to have a topping week,' she said. Then Lord Pinkerton came in. 'Hobart gone?' he asked Jane. 'Yes.' 'Majendie in my room?' 'Yes.' Lord Pinkerton patted Clare's shoulder as he passed her. 'Send Miss Hope in to me when she comes, Babs,' he said, and disappeared through the farther door. Jane began to type. It bored her, but she was fairly proficient at it. Her childhood's training stood her in good stead. 'Mr. Hobart must have run his train pretty fine, if he came in here on the way,' said Clare, twirling the blind-tassel. 'He wasn't going till twelve,' said Jane, typing. 'Oh, I see. I thought it was ten.... I suppose he found he couldn't get that one, and had to see dad first. What a bore for him.... Well, I'm off to meet mother. See you this evening, I suppose.' Clare went out into Paris and the March sunshine, whistling softly.