One day in a magazine that some one had discarded in a subway train I ran across an advertisement for "a young lady of education and good family, familiar with social obligations, to act as a private secretary to a lady in a private home." I answered that advertisement. I had answered dozens similar before. This, like the others no doubt, would end in failure. But I couldn't sit and fold my hands. I must keep on trying. I answered it--and six others at the same time. Of the seven I had a reply only from the one mentioned above. It was a unique reply. It was typewritten. "If still interested in the position referred to in attached clipping reply by complying to requirements enclosed--and mail answer by the evening of the day that this communication is received. "1st. Write a formal acceptance to a formal dinner. 2nd. Write a few words on suffrage appropriate to an older woman who is mildly opposed. 3rd. Write a polite note of refusal to the treasurer of a charitable institution in reply to a request to donate sum of money. 4th. Write a note of condolence to an acquaintance upon the death of a relative. 5th. Write a note of congratulation to a debutante announcing her engagement. 6th. Write an informal invitation to a house-party in the country. 7th. Acknowledge a gift of flowers sent to you during an illness." I sat down with zest to this task. It was an original way to weed out applicants. I spent the whole afternoon over it. It was late in the evening before I had all my questions answered, neatly copied, sealed, and dropped inside a green letter-box. A day or two later I received in the same non-committal typewritten form a brief summons to appear the following morning between twelve and one o'clock at a certain uptown hotel, and to inquire at the desk for Miss A. S. Armstrong. It was a clear starry night. I pinned a towel over my suit, put it on a coat-hanger, and hung it securely to the blind-catch outside my window. I didn't know who Miss A. S. Armstrong was, but at any rate I would offer up to the stars what I possessed of Mrs. Plummet's soup-stock. CHAPTER XX THE FIFTH WHEEL GAINS WINGS Miss A. S. Armstrong proved to be a thin angular creature with no eyelashes. She saw me come in through the revolving doors of the hotel at sharp twelve o'clock. When I enquired for her at the desk, she was at my elbow. She was not the lady I had come to be interviewed by; she was merely her present private secretary; the lady herself, she explained, was upstairs awaiting me. "You're younger than we thought," she said, eyeing me critically. She was a very precise person. Her accent was English. My hopes dimmed as I looked upon her. If she had been selected as desirable, then there was little chance for me. My short experience in employment offices had proved to me the undesirability of possessing qualities that impress a would-be employer as too attractive.