Before the circuit had been made Georgiana had done that which an hour before she would have thought far from her intention, natural as such a procedure would have been a month ago, before Jeannette came--she had told Stuart of Mr. Jefferson's offer. If the truth must be confessed, after suffering the mood which had only lately been dissipated, she could not resist producing the effect she knew, if Jimps were still Jimps, was bound to be produced. Such is woman! Quite as she had foreseen, he was aroused on the instant. The generous sharing of Georgiana Warne with other aspirants for her favour had never been one of James Stuart's characteristics, open-hearted though he was in every other way. He stopped short in the snowy path, regarding her sternly while she smiled in the darkness. This was balm for a heavy heart, indeed, this recognition she had of his disapproval even before he jerked out the quick words: "Great Scott! You don't mean to tell me you'd do it! Spend hours every day working with E. C. Jefferson? Not a bit of it. Not so you'd notice it! Tell him to go to thunder!" "James McKenzie Stuart! What a tone to take! Why on earth should you object?" Georgiana's tone was rich and sweet and astonished--it certainly sounded astonished. "Because you're my chum, my partner; and I won't have you going into partnership with any other man--not much!" "Partnership! Secretaries and stenographers aren't partners----" "Aren't they, though! The most intimate sort. And a fellow like Jefferson, full of books and literary lore--he'd be breaking off work half his time to talk Montaigne and Samuel Johnson and--and Bernard Shaw with you. And you'd drink it all in with those eyes of yours and make him think----" Georgiana's uncontrollable laughter halted but did not stop him. "What's his work, anyhow? Writing a History of Art?" growled Stuart, marching on, with Georgiana beside him bursting into fresh mirth with every step. Her heart was quite light enough now; no danger that she had lost her friend! "I've no idea what it is, but it's certainly not that. He seldom speaks of art in any form--except literary art, of course. I've an idea it's scientific research of some sort." "Then why isn't he in a laboratory somewhere, boiling acids? Why isn't he digging in city libraries or hunting scientific stuff over in Vienna? Vienna's the place for him. I wish him there fast enough," irritably continued this asperser of other men's vocations. "His research work has undoubtedly been done; he has pile upon pile of notebooks and papers on file. His handwriting is a fright; that's probably what he wants me for--to make it legible to the printer." "Let him send for a typist then; that's what he needs if he writes an illegible fist. You can't typewrite." "I could learn, if necessary. I've often wished I could."