"Miss Belmont saved me a great deal of trouble in that way. She could tell what I would want to say." Miss Belmont was the blonde girl who had married and left a vacancy. "I can do the same, sir." "Well, here are some more," continued the old man. "This--No." He tossed another letter to her. She made a shorthand notation in the corner of it. "This--By all means,--and be polite about it. This--An appointment to-morrow afternoon." "Yes, sir." "This--Routine. And these--Send them to the proper departments." More notations. "Yes, sir." "You can start on those. Bring them in when they're ready." "Yes, sir." Exit Georgia. She summoned the deeper layers of her vitality, settled to her work and her fingers flew. She knew the joy--if joy it be--of creation. Quietly she slipped back into the old man's office, without knocking. His secretary had entrance except at such times as he shut his telephone off. She seemed very slim and neat, and calm and steady--almost prim, perhaps, as she stood with pen and blotter in her hand to take the old man's signatures. But her being surged within her like that of a mother who waits to hear if her boy is to be expelled from school or forgiven. The old man had been going over a campaign plan for business with one of his quickest witted solicitors, and after Georgia had waited standing for a few moments, dismissed him with, "Yes, that's the right line, Stevens. Just keep plugging along it." As Stevens passed her on his way out he bowed slightly. He had been doing that for some time now, though he had not yet spoken to her. Stevens was still under thirty, she concluded, though she had heard he had been with the company for ten years. A silent, sharp-featured, tall young fellow with chilly blue eyes, who had the name in the office of keeping himself to himself and being all business. The old man, having glanced over and signed the letters, passed his verdict on her work--"Hmm, hmm, Miss Connor, you may move your things to Miss Belmont's desk. And here's a note----" When an author conquers a stage manager; or Atchison rises 4% the very next day; or the Cubs bat it out in the tenth on a darkening September afternoon; when on the third and last trial, it's a boy; or when Handsome Harry Matinee returns you his curled likeness _signed_; or you first sip Mai Wein, you know what it is to move your things to Miss Belmont's desk. "And here's a note," continued the old man, without the gap which we have made to put in analogues, "to Mr. Edward Miles--I'd better dictate this one myself--'Dear Mr. Miles: I should be happy to have you call--' No, strike that out. 'In response to your letter of even date, I should be glad to see you at any time that suits you, here in my office--' no, make it three o'clock to-morrow afternoon--'to confer over the subject of the Senatorial campaign in your district.' Read what you've got." Georgia did so.