When Don came back to the office he found Miss Winthrop again at her typewriter, but she did not even glance up as he took his former place at Powers's desk. If this was not particularly flattering, it at least gave him the privilege of watching her. But it was rather curious that he found in this enough to hold his attention for half an hour. It is doubtful whether he could have watched Frances herself for so long a time without being bored. It was the touch of seriousness about the girl's eyes and mouth that now set him to wondering--a seriousness that he had sometimes noted in the faces of men who had seen much of life. Life--that was the keynote. He felt that she had been in touch with life, and had got the better of it: that there had been drama in her past, born of contact with men and women. She had been dealing with such problems as securing food--and his experience of the last twenty-four hours had hinted at how dramatic that may be; with securing lodgings for the night; with the problem of earning not more money but enough money to keep her alive. All this had left its mark, not in ugliness, but in a certain seriousness that made him keen to know about her. Here was a girl who was not especially concerned with operas, with books, with the drama, but with the stuff of which those things are made. Miss Winthrop removed from her typewriter the final page of the long letter she had finished and rapidly went over it for errors. She found none. But, as she gathered her papers together before taking them into the private office of Mr. Farnsworth, she spoke. She spoke without even then glancing at Don--as if voicing a thought to herself. "Believe me," she said, "they are not going to pay you for sitting there and watching me." Don felt the color spring to his cheeks. "I beg your pardon," he apologized. "It doesn't bother me any," she continued, as she rose. "Only there isn't any money for the firm in that sort of thing." "But there doesn't seem to be anything around here for me to do." "Then make something," she concluded, as she moved away. Blake, to whom he had been introduced, was sitting at his desk reading an early edition of an evening paper. Spurred on by her admonition, he strolled over there. Blake glanced up with a nod. "How you making it?" he inquired. "There doesn't seem to be much for me to do," said Don. "Can you suggest anything?" "Farnsworth will dig up enough for you later on. I wouldn't worry about that." "But I don't know anything about the game." "You'll pick it up. Did I understand Farnsworth to say you were Harvard?" "Yes." "I'm Princeton. Say, what sort of a football team have you this year?"