married, and whether they were those whose salaries were
smaller than his own. Collins, one of the copy editors, he
knew, was very ill-paid; but Sam also knew that Collins was
married, because his wife used to wait for him in the office
to take her to the theatre, and often Sam had thought she was
extremely well dressed. Of course Sister Anne was so
beautiful that what she might wear would be a matter of
indifference; but then women did not always look at it that
way. Sam was so long considering offering Sister Anne a life
position that his silence had become significant; and to
cover his real thoughts he said hurriedly:

"Take type-writing, for instance. That pays very well. The
hours are not difficult."

"And manicuring?" suggested Sister Anne.

Sam exclaimed in horror.

"You!" he cried roughly. "For you! Quite impossible!"

"Why for me?" said the girl.

In the distress at the thought Sam was jabbing his stick into
the gravel walk as though driving the manicuring idea into a
deep grave. He did not see that the girl was smiling at him
mockingly.

"You?" protested Sam. "You in a barber's shop washing men's
fingers who are not fit to wash the streets you walk on I