"Yes, that's why I did not charge for the carbons, and made you just a
half-rate."
"There seems to be some mistake," he replied. "I understood from Mrs.
Martin that you would do this work just as if it were for her."
"Do you mean," I said, "for nothing?"
He made a gesture with his hands, as much as to say, "Don't put it so
baldly."
I stared at him. I could not believe that any one would be mean enough
to let me do all that work for nothing. He was a greatly admired
author. His play seemed, in my youthful judgment, a fine thing, and yet
was it possible that he would impose upon a poor working-girl? Could
he really believe that I, who was being paid only seven dollars a week
for my morning services, would have worked afternoons and evenings to
type-write his play without charge?
He put his play in a large envelop, and then he said:
"I appreciate very much what you have done, and I am pleased with your
work. I shall make a point of recommending you to friends of mine." He
cleared his throat. "I've also brought you a little present in token of
my appreciation." He took from his coat pocket a book, one of his own.
"It's autographed," he said, smiling, and gave it to me.
I held his book with a thumb and forefinger, as if it were something
unclean, and then I deliberately dropped it into the waste-paper-basket.
He turned violently red and walked into Mrs. Martin's studio.
I had started in aimlessly to change the ribbon,--I had worn out one
for his play,--when Mrs. Martin sailed majestically from her room and
up to my desk.
"Miss Ascough," she said, "I won't require your services any further.
You may leave at once."
I shrugged my shoulders, sneered, and laughed right up in her face, as
if the loss of such a job as that was a matter of supreme indifference
to me. She became as red as her friend, and walked haughtily back to
her private quarters.