Georgia had tried her hardest for five days. She had stayed overtime to rewrite whole pages for the sake of a single omitted letter; she had bought half a dozen severely plain shirt waists, and yielded up her puffs. Everyone knew how the old man hated the first sign of nonsense. But in spite of all that the day before he had called in Miss Gerson to take his dictation. Well--it was pretty hard, but she had done her best. And she was a better workman than Miss Gerson, she would stick to that. Only yesterday she had seen Miss G. twice hunting in a pocket dictionary hidden in her lap--and she never had to do that, practically. Life was just one damn thing after another, as Jim was always complaining--only he could never possibly have apprehended the full truth and implication of that saying--in spite of its rather common way of putting it. She knew that he never saw deeply, really fundamentally into the dreadful mystery of being here; he couldn't for he was coarse and masculine and he drank. Her fingers were working rapidly casting up purple letter after purple letter before her eyes, but the physiologists tell us that she was using only the front part of her brain for it. The rest of it was free to contemplate the Ultimate Purpose, or gross favoritism in the office especially in relation to Miss Gerson, or whether an ice cream soda was a silly thing to have before lunch, as she knew it was, but then one had to have some pleasure. Rat-tat-tat-tat went the keys; ding, there was her bell. Ten letters more on this line said the front part of her brain. One thing she was sure of, said the back, she devoutly hoped her young brother Al wouldn't develop into a mere white-collared clerk--though of course she certainly wanted him to be always a gentleman. She slid her carriage for the new line. Rat-tat-tat-tat--and again, ding. There, the end of the page. Single space and not an error. She would like to see Miss Gerson do that at her speed. The shuffle of the old man's office boy sounded behind her. Now, wait--what would to-day's verdict be? Would he pass or stop? "Miss Connor," a-a-ah--"the old man wants you to take some letters." (Georgia had let them suppose she was unmarried.) The benison of perfect peace now enfolded her. Poor little Miss Gerson--well, after all, life is a game, the loser pays, and the winner can be perfectly philosophical about it. Georgia went to the old man's private office and closed the door behind her. "Yes, sir." She stood at attention, pad and pencil ready. "Will you take these please, Miss Connor? Mr. James Serviss--here's his address," the old man tossed the letter he was answering over to her. "Dear Sir: Replying to yours of the 16th inst, we regret that----. Well, tell him it's impossible. Write the letter yourself. You understand!" He was observing her as if to probe her resourcefulness. "Perfectly, sir."