"Perhaps they won't keep her," parried Norman gracefully. "The head clerk looks after those things." "He probably likes her." "No," said Norman, too indifferent to be cautious. "She has no 'gentlemen friends.'" "How do you know that?" said the girl, and she could not keep a certain sharpness out of her voice. "Tetlow, the head clerk, told me. I asked him a few questions about her. I had some confidential work to do and didn't want to trust her without being sure." He saw that she was now prey to her jealous suspicion. He was uncertain whether to be amused or irritated. She had to pause long and with visible effort collect herself before venturing: "Oh, she does confidential work for you? I thought you said she was incompetent." He, the expert cross-examiner, had to admire her skill at that high science and art. "I felt sorry for her," he said. "She seemed such a forlorn little creature." She laughed with a constrained attempt at raillery. "I never should have suspected you of such weakness. To give confidential things to a forlorn little incompetent, out of pity." He was irritated, distinctly. The whole thing was preposterous. It reminded him of feats of his own before a jury. By clever questioning, Josephine had made about as trifling an incident as could be imagined take on really quite imposing proportions. There was annoyance in his smile as he said: "Shall I send her up to see you? You might find it amusing, and maybe you could do something for her." Josephine debated. "Yes," she finally said. "I wish you would send her--" with a little sarcasm--"if you can spare her for an hour or so." "Don't make it longer than that," laughed he. "Everything will stop while she's gone." It pleased him, in a way, this discovery that Josephine had such a common, commonplace weakness as jealousy. But it also took away something from his high esteem for her--an esteem born of the lover's idealizings; for, while he was not of the kind of men who are on their knees before women, he did have a deep respect for Josephine, incarnation of all the material things that dazzled him--a respect with something of the reverential in it, and something of awe--more than he would have admitted to himself. To-day, as of old, the image-makers are as sincere worshipers as visit the shrines. In our prostrations and genuflections in the temple we do not discriminate against the idols we ourselves have manufactured; on the contrary, them we worship with peculiar gusto. Norman knew his gods were frauds, that their divine qualities were of the earth earthy. But he served them, and what most appealed to him in Josephine was that she incorporated about all their divine qualities. He and his sister went home together. Her first remark in the auto was: "What were you and Josie quarreling about?" "Quarreling?" inquired he in honest surprise. "I looked at her through my glasses and saw that the was all upset--and you, too." "This is too ridiculous," cried he.