Young Mandeville Ryder entered the employment bureau with extreme
reluctance. Indeed, when he opened the door and saw so many women in
there, and heard so many feminine voices, he would have backed out
again, only that he was too young to dare to run away.
He was twenty-five--the age of pig-headed valor. He had undertaken to do
this thing, and he meant to do it. Instinct warned him to flee, but he
paid no heed. Hat in hand, he advanced to the desk and somewhat vaguely
made known his wants.
It was a question of engaging a companion for his sister, who was a
nervous wreck. His brother-in-law had implored him to do this.
“B-because,” Sheila’s husband said, “if I find any one--well, Mandy, you
know what she’ll probably say.”
Mandeville did know. He had taken pity upon his luckless brother-in-law,
and had agreed to go and pick out a companion for Sheila; so here he
was.
The young woman in charge of the bureau listened to him with courteous
inattention. She had long ago ceased to trouble with any one’s detailed
requirements. She knew that both employers and employees wanted and
demanded things that never existed in this world, and that in the end
they would take what they could get and be more or less satisfied.
She was, however, rather favorably impressed by this client. Not only
was he more than six feet tall, extraordinarily good-looking, and
extremely well dressed, but he had an air about him--a superb sort of
nonchalance, which she saw through at once, and which she recognized as
merely a disguise for an honest, candid, and endearingly youthful
spirit; so she decided not to inflict Miss Mullins upon him. Miss
Mullins had been registered for six weeks, and, considering her
temperament and personal appearance, she needed every possible chance.
“No!” thought the young woman in charge. “I’ll let him see Miss Twill.”
Smiling pleasantly, she led Mandeville into a room where four women were
already established, talking, two in each corner, in low tones, and
eying each other with quick, terribly penetrating glances. A prominent
clubwoman was interviewing a poor little secretary, and a mild,
home-keeping lady was being interviewed by a stern and handsome English
governess.
Young Mandeville had to sit either on a very low wicker rocking-chair,
or on a settee. He tried the rocking-chair first, but it brought his
knees up to his chin, so he had to take the settee, and this caused him
considerable anxiety; for suppose--
Well, it happened. Miss Twill, brought in and presented to him, did sit
down on the settee beside him. She was a cheery soul. All her
unimpeachable references mentioned her “cheerful disposition.” She
really had no perceptible faults at all, but she wouldn’t do.
Young Mandeville was absolutely incapable of telling her this to her
cheerful face, and their conversation had trailed into an awful
succession of one “well” after another, when the intelligent manageress
of the bureau saved him. She sent him another prospective companion to
be interviewed, another and yet another, and none of them would do.
Mandeville suffered exceedingly. He wished that he could give the
discouraged, pinched little old one a present--a dozen pairs of gloves,
for instance. He wished that he could invite the pert, pretty young one
out to lunch. He was sorry for all of them, and he felt like a brute;
but he knew what he wanted, and these would not do. There he sat, like a
caliph in his divan, pronouncing judgment upon these poor, anxious
creatures, and waiting, without much hope, for the right one.
He had a clear idea of the right one. He had met her--in novels and in
the theater--a tall, grave, lovely young woman, exquisitely well bred,
dignified, and yet subtly pathetic; the sort of companion who can stand
about and converse with diplomats. Not that his sister ever entertained
diplomats, but that was the type.
The manageress was becoming a little severe. It was dawning upon her
that this client was not so manageable as he looked. After he had seen
and--with great mental suffering--rejected six companions, she decided
to make an end of him.
The room was temporarily empty of all but Mandeville when she returned
with the seventh applicant.
“Miss La Chêne!” said she, and, saying, vanished.
Miss La Chêne did not sit beside Mandeville on the settee--not she! She
took the low rocking-chair opposite him, crossed her feet modestly,
clasped her little white-gloved hands in her lap, and raised her eyes to
his face. Enormous, soft black eyes they were, set in a dark, lovely,
pointed face. She was dressed with an innocent sort of elegance, in a
dark suit and a small, close-fitting hat. She had about her such an air
of propriety, something so decorous and demure and delightful, that
Mandeville couldn’t repress a smile. She smiled, too, and dropped her
eyes.
He didn’t know how to begin. This charming little thing was nothing but
a child, a kid.
“Er--” he said, in his vague, grand manner. “Er--I don’t imagine you’ve
had much experience as a--er--a companion.”
“None!” said she, almost with vehemence. “None at all; but I speak
French just as I do English, I can sew, I can read aloud, I can play the
piano. I have good personal references from people in Quebec, and I have
a diploma from the convent.”
In hot haste she opened her hand bag, brought out some letters, and
handed them to the young man. Somehow he didn’t care to read them.
Somehow this interview lacked a businesslike tone. No--he couldn’t read
the poor little thing’s letters!
She was watching him anxiously.
“I’ll try very hard, if some one will only give me a chance!” said she.
Poor little thing! Such a sweet, well bred little voice!
“I know,” said Mandeville earnestly; “but--you see, my sister wants--”
For instinct warned him that this delightful creature would not do.
“You see--” he went on, but stopped short, because the poor little
thing’s black eyes filled with tears.
“I’m only eighteen,” she said, “and all alone in the world.”
This was more than he could endure. He was silent for a moment, trying
honestly to weigh the merits of the case. She was obviously well bred,
she spoke French, she could sew, she could read aloud, she could play
the piano; but all these qualifications became confused in his mind with
the quite irrelevant facts that she was only eighteen and all alone in
the world, and that she had those extraordinary, those marvelous eyes.
“I’ll take you to see my sister,” he said, at last, for he thought that
his sister could not fail to be touched by so much youth, beauty, and
innocence.