"But you say you can't afford to employ one," he protested. "Besides, I shouldn't want her to be a real secretary. The work would be too hard and too confining. Old Bramble was my grandfather's secretary. He worked sixteen hours a day and never had a holiday. She must have plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise and--and time to read and do all sorts of agreeable things. I couldn't think of allowing her to learn how to use a typing machine, or to write shorthand, or to get pains in her back bending over a desk for hours at a time. That isn't my scheme, at all. She mustn't do any of those stupid things. Naturally, if you were to pay her out of your own pocket, you'd be justified in demanding a lot of hard, exacting work--" "Just a moment, please. Let's be serious," said the Marchioness, pursing her lips. "Suffering--" he began, staring at her in astonishment. "I mean, let's seriously consider your scheme," she hastened to amend. "You are assuming, of course, that she will accept a position such as you suggest. Suppose she says no,--what then?" "I leave that entirely to you," said he, composedly. "You can persuade her, I'm sure." "She is no fool. She is perfectly well aware that I don't require the services of a secretary, that I am quite able to manage my private affairs myself. She would see through me in a second. She is as proud as Lucifer. I don't like to think of what she would say to me. And if I were to offer to pay her one hundred dollars a month, she would--well, she would think I was losing my mind. She knows I--" "By Jove!" he exclaimed, slapping his knee, his face beaming. "That's the ticket! That simplifies everything. Let her think you _are_ losing your mind. From worry and overwork--and all that sort of thing. It's the very thing, Marchioness. She would drop everything to help you in a case like that." "Well, of all the--" began the Marchioness, aghast. "You can put it up to her something like this," he went on, enthusiastically. "Tell her you are on the point of having a nervous breakdown,--a sort of collapse, you know. You know how to put it, better than I do. You--" "I certainly do _not_ know how to put it better than you do," she cried, sitting up very straight. "Tell her you are dreadfully worried over not being able to remember things,--mental strain, and all that sort of thing. May have to give up business altogether unless you can--Is it a laughing matter, Marchioness?" he broke off, reddening to the roots of his hair. "You are delicious!" she cried, dabbing her eyes with a bit of a lace handkerchief. "I haven't laughed so heartily in months. Bless my soul, you'll have me telling her there is insanity in my family before you're through with it."