One day Graves came to me with a beaming face.
“You know I don’t often express an opinion on an untried worker,” he
said; “but this time I’ve made a find. I’ve got just the sort of girl I
want in the office. She’s a college graduate; comes of an old Southern
family--”
“And her father died, and she was obliged to go out into the world and
earn a living,” I said.
He was amazed.
“How did you find out about that?” he demanded.
“She hasn’t had any experience,” I continued; “but ah, what class!”
“Now see here,” said Graves. “You’ve been talking to Miss Clare!”
“I know Miss Clare like my own sister,” I told him. “I’ve met her a
thousand times. I’ve read her in books and seen her in movies--”
“Oh, that!” said Graves. “Well, you’re entirely wrong, you chump. She’s
absolutely original.”
“I knew that,” said I. “She makes the most wonderful clothes for herself
out of old quilts, and she can get up the most delicious little suppers
for two for thirty cents--”
He laughed, with that disarming good humor of his.
“Well, I haven’t got as far as that yet,” he said. “I don’t know what
she eats or makes her clothes out of, but I can tell you this--she’s
the neatest, most sensible-looking girl in the place!”
When I saw Miss Clare, I had to admit that in some ways she deviated
from the usual type. She was what you might call a tall, willowy blonde.
She had fine eyes, and knew it; but she was not kittenish, or pathetic,
or appealing. She was doggedly in earnest. I liked her for that.
When I knew her better, I liked her for many other things, too. She was
as honest and candid as daylight, and she left her fine old Southern
family and her college and all her past glories where they belonged. She
was there to work.