"Very well, very well. I thought you looked tired, that's all. Do as you please. Do as you please. Of course, the house and the whole concern is entirely under your management!" She smiled at him, he smiled at her: they understood each other very well and, pleased with her little show of power, she glanced at Morton, surprising from him a look so tender and unguarded that her face was crimsoned. She felt that even her eyes were blushing, and she covered them with rosy lids, hating her weakness, hating him, yet conscious of a new respect for a man who could make her flinch. In the afternoon a knock came at the office door, and Morton entered at Theresa's bidding. "I wondered if I could help you," he said; "for, indeed, you do look very tired." He stood near her chair, looking down at her. His eyes were deep and soft, the lines of his face were firm and fine. He seemed firm and fine all over: his hands, his clothes, his figure, belonged to a type of man she had not known: he stood for something orderly and seemly, something her life had missed. "I am not tired," she said. "And I don't think you can help. Thank you. It would be more trouble to tell you what to do. I don't suppose you can use a typewriter?" "No." He felt the vastness of his ignorance. "But I think I could learn." "It's not much harder than organ grinding." Laughter crept slyly about her eyes and mouth. "Would you like to try?" "I should, very much." "Then you may take the typewriter into the library. It's rather an irritating noise to work with, but I shan't hear it from there. And then, some other day, you may be useful." He could do nothing but carry the heavy thing away with him, and for the rest of the afternoon he sat before it, trying, for his dignity's sake, to pretend he liked the sound which deafened him to the other one he listened for, so that Theresa went home without his knowledge. Morton stayed in Radstowe for a fortnight, and each day hurried his determination to win Theresa. Yet even to his fondness, to fancy her a wife, was to imagine the chaining of a dragon fly. The moods she showed him were as changeful as the colours in that creature's wings, her glances were as swift as its flight. Sometimes he would find her steady, as though she had settled on a flower, and at a word she would dart off again whither he could not follow. He could not always even watch her passage, it was so tortuous and so quick, and she left him puzzled, bewildered, uncertain of her, but the more certain of himself. Every day they met decorously at luncheon, and often, if Neville were out, she made him welcome in the office. "You must let me help you." "Of course." Her lifted eyebrows snubbed him delicately. "Will you read out this list for me? I want to type it. Oh, but faster than that! No, let me have it. I shall manage better alone." He protested. "I'm very sorry. I wasn't thinking. Let me try again." She was lenient: she knew he had been watching her.