nger. In her twenty
years of experience as a typist and secretary she had never had to
refuse with scorn and indignation so much as a box of chocolates from
any of her employers. Nevertheless, she continued to be icily on her
guard. The clenched fist of her dignity was always drawn back, ready to
swing on the first male who dared to step beyond the bounds of
professional civility.

Such was Miss Pillenger. She was the last of a long line of unprotected
English girlhood which had been compelled by straitened circumstances
to listen for hire to the appallingly dreary nonsense which Mr Meggs
had to impart on the subject of British Butterflies. Girls had come,
and girls had gone, blondes, ex-blondes, brunettes, ex-brunettes,
near-blondes, near-brunettes; they had come buoyant, full of hope and
life, tempted by the lavish salary which Mr Meggs had found himself
after a while compelled to pay; and they had dropped off, one after
another, like exhausted bivalves, unable to endure the crushing boredom
of life in the village which had given Mr Meggs to the world. For Mr
Meggs's home-town was no City of Pleasure. Remove the Vicar's
magic-lantern and the try-your-weight machine opposite the post office,
and you practically eliminated the temptations to tread the primrose
path. The only young men in the place were silent, gaping youths, at
whom lunacy commissioners looked sharply and suspiciously when they
met. The tango was unknown, and the one-step. The only form of dance
extant--and that only at the rarest intervals--was a sort of polka not
unlike the movements of a slightly inebriated boxing kangaroo. Mr
Meggs's secretaries and typists gave the town one startled, horrified
glance, and stampeded for London like frightened ponies.

Not so Miss Pillenger. She remained. She was a business woman, and it
was enough for her that she received a good salary. For five pounds a
week she would have undertaken a post as secretary and typist to a
Polar Expedition. For six years she had been with Mr Meggs, and
doubtless she looked forward to being with him at least six years more.

Perhaps it was the pathos of this thought which touched Mr Meggs, as
she sailed, notebook in hand, through the doorway of the study. Here,
he told himself, was a confiding girl, all unconscious of impending
doom, relying on him as a daughter relies on her father. He was glad
that he had not forgotten Miss Pillenger when he was making his
preparations.

He had