I want to talk to you."
She sat down in the chair of Mr. Meggison's absent stenographer. By
this time the pink of her cheeks had deepened to red. She was
wondering more than ever what he was going to do, and what she would
do when he had done it. But as she sat facing him she realized that
she was no longer afraid. She felt a sense of power and resource.
"Are you surprised that I remember your name, Miss Child?" he asked.
"I don't know the custom," she replied primly. Would he expect her to
say "Sir?" Anyhow, she wouldn't! She compromised with a dainty
meekness which might be interpreted as respect for a superior. Mr.
Meggison fixed her with a sharp look which would have detected the
impudence of a lurking laugh.
"That's a funny answer," said he. "You 'don't know the custom!' Well,
my idea of you is, you don't know much about any business customs, on
our side of the water or yours either." As he spoke he watched her
face to catch any guilty flicker of an eyelid. "I want you to tell me
what was your idea in going for a job with us."
"I saw your advertisement for extra hands."
"The woods--I mean the papers--are full of advertisements.
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