“Uh-huh!” grunted the superintendent. “Maybe.” “You are insular,” laughed Frank Barton. “The women are forging to the front, man. Miss Clayton is far more capable than some of the heads of departments who have grown gray here.” “Maybe,” agreed the superintendent. “But I don’t want to see her out there in overalls, bossing my men around. Don’t forget that, Frank.” The superintendent arose and strolled out of the private office. In the larger desk room he halted and watched the “capable” girl at her desk nearest the manager’s door. Ethel was the “buffer” between much outside annoyance and the general manager of the Hapwood-Diller Company. There were gold and red lights in her chestnut hair; the pallor of her countenance was not unhealthy; merely she was not enough in the open. But where the sun had kissed the bridge of her nose there was a sprinkle of tiny freckles. There were flecks of gold, too, in her brown eyes. Her mouth and chin were firm rather than soft, and the gaze of her eyes direct; nevertheless there was nothing unfeminine about her appearance. The severest critic could hold no brief against the charms of her figure. Her arms were beautifully rounded, her wrists tapering, her hands just the right size. She had a naturally small waist, and the lines of her hips showed that her limbs were slenderly yet strongly built. She was a tall girl. The superintendent caught her eye after a moment, she looking up thoughtfully from the papers before her. “You want to handle that business with gloves, Ethel,” he advised in a low voice. “Barton’s hardly himself to-day--the boys going away and all. He thinks that, with three years’ experience in bossing those sappies around the armory, he should jump right into this war. Get to be a general or something right off the handle,” and he chuckled. Again the girl’s face flushed softly and she dropped her gaze. She made him no reply at all, but Mayberry went on: “And that Fuller girl’s got him running around in circles, too. You can see he isn’t himself, or he would not balk at such an order as this from the Bogata people. Why, they’re all right folks. The factory’s made a lot of money out of their orders. And here----” “Did Mr. Barton ask you to discuss this matter with me, Mr. Mayberry?” asked the girl coldly and without looking up again. “If not, please remember that he has commissioned me to write a letter to them that will meet his approval. Don’t bother me now.” “Oh, pshaw, Ethel!” the man said, smiling down at her unctuously. “Don’t take every little thing so blame seriously. Frank Barton and I were kids together. I can’t fall down and worship him the way some of you do. Anyway, you’d better show him how to take a chance with these Bogata people--if you really want to _help_. I know they’re all right.” “Why don’t you tell that to Mr. Barton?” the girl asked rather tartly.