came--she had
told Stuart of Mr. Jefferson's offer. If the truth must be confessed,
after suffering the mood which had only lately been dissipated, she
could not resist producing the effect she knew, if Jimps were still
Jimps, was bound to be produced. Such is woman!

Quite as she had foreseen, he was aroused on the instant. The generous
sharing of Georgiana Warne with other aspirants for her favour had never
been one of James Stuart's characteristics, open-hearted though he was
in every other way. He stopped short in the snowy path, regarding her
sternly while she smiled in the darkness. This was balm for a heavy
heart, indeed, this recognition she had of his disapproval even before
he jerked out the quick words:

"Great Scott! You don't mean to tell me you'd do it! Spend hours every
day working with E. C. Jefferson? Not a bit of it. Not so you'd notice
it! Tell him to go to thunder!"

"James McKenzie Stuart! What a tone to take! Why on earth should you
object?" Georgiana's tone was rich and sweet and astonished--it
certainly sounded astonished.

"Because you're my chum, my partner; and I won't have you going into
partnership with any other man--not much!"

"Partnership! Secretaries and stenographers aren't partners----"

"Aren't they, though! The most intimate sort. And a fellow like
Jefferson, full of books and literary lore--he'd be breaking off work
half his time to talk Montaigne and Samuel Johnson and--and Bernard
Shaw with you. And you'd drink it all in with those eyes of yours and
make him think----" Georgiana's uncontrollable laughter halted but did
not stop him. "What's his work, anyhow? Writing a History of Art?"
growled Stuart, marching on, with Georgiana beside him bursting into
fresh mirth with every step. Her heart was quite light enough now; no
danger that she had lost her friend!

"I've no idea what it is, but it's certainly not that. He seldom speaks
of art in any form--except literary art, of course. I've an idea it's
scientific research of some sort."

"Then why isn't he in a laboratory somewhere, boiling acids? Why isn't
he digging in city libraries or hunting scientific stuff over in Vienna?
Vienna's the place for him. I wish him there fast enough," irritably
continued this asperser of other men's vocations.

"His research work has undoubtedly been done; he has pile upon pile of
notebooks and papers on file. His handwriting is a fright; that's
probably what he wants me for--to make it l