had been, nor bear himself with a more graceful carriage.
Whatever social success he had achieved, it had not spoiled him,
for his manner was as genial and easy as ever.

"I think that will do, Miss Holland," he said, turning to the girl
who, with notebook in hand, stood by the desk.

"Evidently," thought T. X., "our Hellenic friend has a pretty taste
in secretaries."

In that one glance he took her all in - from the bronze-brown of
her hair to her neat foot.

T. X. was not readily attracted by members of the opposite sex.
He was self-confessed a predestined bachelor, finding life and its
incidence too absorbing to give his whole mind to the serious
problem of marriage, or to contract responsibilities and interests
which might divert his attention from what he believed was the
greater game. Yet he must be a man of stone to resist the
freshness, the beauty and the youth of this straight, slender
girl; the pink-and-whiteness of her, the aliveness and buoyancy
and the thrilling sense of vitality she carried in her very
presence.

"What is the weirdest name you have ever heard?" asked Kara
laughingly. "I ask you, because Miss Holland and I have been
discussing a begging letter addressed to us by a Maggie Goomer."

The girl smiled slightly and in that smile was paradise, thought
T. X.