f the business you won't be of much value; but if you'd
like to start at--say twenty-five dollars a week--why, we'd be glad to
have you."

At the beginning Don had a vague notion of estimating his value at
considerably more; but Mr. Farnsworth was so decided, it did not seem
worth while. At that moment, also, he was reminded again that he had
not yet breakfasted.

"Thanks," he replied. "When shall I begin?"

"Whenever you wish. If you haven't anything on to-day, you might come
in now, meet some of the men, and get your bearings."

"All right," assented Don.

Within the next five minutes Farnsworth had introduced him to Blake
and Manson and Wheaton and Powers and Jennings and Chandler. Also to
Miss Winthrop, a very busy stenographer. Then he left him in a chair
by Powers's desk. Powers was dictating to Miss Winthrop, and Don
became engrossed in watching the nimbleness of her fingers.

At the end of his dictation, Powers excused himself and went out,
leaving Don alone with Miss Winthrop. For a moment he felt a bit
uncomfortable; he was not quite sure what the etiquette of a business
office demanded in a situation of this sort. Soon, however, he
realized that the question was solving itself by the fact that Miss
Winthrop was apparently oblivious to his presence. If he figured in
her consciousness any more than one of the office chairs, she gave no
indication of it. She was transcribing from her notebook to the
typewriter, and her fingers moved with marvelous dexterity and
sureness. There was a sureness about every other movement, as when she
slipped in a new sheet of paper or addressed an envelope or raised
her head. There was a sureness in her eyes. He found himself quite
unexpectedly staring into them once, and they didn't waver, although
he was not quite certain, even then, that they saw him. They were
brown eyes, honest and direct, above a good nose and a mouth that,
while retaining its girlish mobility, also revealed an unexpected
trace of almost manlike firmness. It was a face that interested him,
but, before he was able to determine in just what way, she finished
her last letter and, rising abruptly, disappeared into a rear room.
Presently she emerged, wearing a hat and coat.

It was, on the whole, a very becoming hat and a very becoming coat,
though they would not have suited at all the critical taste of Frances
Stuyvesant. But they had not been designed for that purpose.

Miss Winthrop paused to readjust