She went up and down in many elevators and through many ground-glass doors in her hunt for work. One prosperous-looking, buxom, extreme blonde of thirty-eight, dressed a coquettish twenty-five, paid her a compliment. "Listen," she said in a stage whisper, motioning to Georgia with a stubby forefinger to bend her head nearer, "listen. I wouldn't hire you for a dollar a week." She laughed merrily. "You're too much of a doll-baby yourself." Georgia noted that the blonde lady's two assistants, hammering away in the dark inside corners of the room, were without menace, sallow and flat-chested. In a small suite in the newest, highest-rented building in town, she found three tall, thin young men, apparently brothers. They were all very busy, writing by touch, their eyes fixed steadily on their notes. She spoke to the nearest, but his flying fingers did not even pause for her. "No women," he replied succinctly. Many of the public stenographers had no employes; few more than one. Georgia found several places where they had just hired a girl. Apparently it was nowhere near so easy to find a place where they had just fired one. It was getting discouraging. But her luck turned at the sign of L. Frankland, room 1241, the Sixth National Building. 1241 had a single narrow window which gave upon eight hundred others in the tall rectangular court. The room was not strategically desirable because there was another stenographic office between it and the elevator bank. Georgia felt sure she had seen L. Frankland before, but couldn't just place her. "Do you need help? I am an expert stenographer." That was her formula. "Yes, I do," came the wholly surprising answer. Georgia promptly sat down. "But," continued L. Frankland, "I cannot afford to pay for it." Georgia rose. "In that case," she said stiffly, "good-day." "Why not," suggested L. Frankland, "go in with me as partner?" "Partner--that would be fine--but I haven't any money." "Neither have I--and I'll be turned out of here a week from to-morrow if I haven't twenty-seven fifty by then. That's how much I'm behind." She smiled cheerfully. Then Georgia remembered her. She was the nice old maid who had given her the seat in the car on the day she had met Mason. "What's your rent!" "Twenty-seven fifty." "What arrangements do you want to make?" "Fifty-fifty on everything." "I'll take a chance," said Georgia, removing her hat. "But," she exclaimed, looking around, "why you've only got one machine--and a double keyboard at that. I'm not used to them." "We can rent another for a dollar a week--any sort you want," L. Frankland suggested with ready resource. "We can't get it here to-day. Let's see, Miss, Miss ah--what is your name?" They told each other. "Miss Frankland, are you a fast writer?" "No," she answered, composedly rattling off a few test lines--"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party." It was true enough. She was slow.