flashed to him and was gone. Why had he never noticed her before? All
these months, for more than a year, perhaps,--she had been in his office,
and he had not so much as looked at her twice. The unguessed answer was
that he had never surprised her in a vivid moment. He had a flair for
women, though he had never encountered any possessing the higher values,
and it was characteristic of the plane of his mental processes that this
one should remind him now of a dark, lithe panther, tensely strung,
capable of fierceness. The pain of having her scratch him would be
delectable.

When he measured her it was to discover that she was not so little, and
the shoulder-curve of her uplifted arms, as her fingers played over the
keys, seemed to belie that apparent slimness. And had he not been
unacquainted with the subtleties of the French mind and language, he
might have classed her as a fausse maigre. Her head was small, her hair
like a dark, blurred shadow clinging round it. He wanted to examine her
hair, to see whether it would not betray, at closer range, an
imperceptible wave,--but not daring to linger he went into his office,
closed the door, and sat down with a sensation akin to weakness, somewhat
appalled by his discovery, considerably amazed at his previous stupidity.
He had thought of Janet--when she had entered his mind at all--as
unobtrusive, demure; now he recognized this demureness as repression. Her
qualities needed illumination, and he, Claude Ditmar, had seen them
struck with fire. He wondered whether any other man had been as
fortunate.

Later in the morning, quite casually, he made inquiries of Miss Ottway,
who liked Janet and was willing to do her a good turn.

"Why, she's a clever girl, Mr. Ditmar, a good stenographer, and