"You may go," said he. "I am very much obliged to you." And he
contrived, as always, to put a suggestion of genuineness into the
customary phrase.

"I'm afraid it's not good work," said she. "I'll wait to see if I am to
do any of it over."

"No, thank you," said he. And he looked up--to find himself gazing at
still another person, wholly different from any he had seen before. The
others had all been women--womanly women, full of the weakness, the
delicateness rather, that distinguishes the feminine. This woman he was
looking at now had a look of strength. He had thought her frail. He was
seeing a strong woman--a splendidly healthy body, with sinews of steel
most gracefully covered by that fair smooth skin of hers. And her
features, too--why, this girl was a person of character, of will.

He glanced through the pages. "All right--thank you," he said hastily.
"Please don't stay any longer. Leave the other thing till to-morrow."

"No--it has to be done to-night."

"But I insist upon your going."

She hesitated, said quietly, "Very well," and turned to go.

"And you mustn't do it at home, either."

She made no reply, but waited respectfully until it was evident he
wished to say no more, then went out. He bundled together his papers,
sealed and stamped and addressed his letter, put on his overcoat and hat