wasn't. She seemed thin, and when you looked again, you saw that she was really only slender, and beautifully shaped throughout." 

 Miss Burroughs laughed. "She must have been attractive." 

 "Not in the least. Absolutely without charm—and so homely—no, not homely—commonplace. No, that's not right, either. She had a startling way of fading and blazing out. One moment she seemed a blank—pale, lifeless, colorless, a nobody. The next minute she became—amazingly different. Not the same thing every time, but different things." 

 Frederick Norman was too experienced a dealer with women deliberately to make the mistake—rather, to commit the breach of tact and courtesy—involved in praising one woman to another. But in this case it never occurred to him that he was talking to a woman of a woman. Josephine Burroughs was a lady; the other was a piece of office machinery—and a very trivial piece at that. But he saw and instantly understood the look in her eyes—the strained effort to keep the telltale upper lip from giving its prompt and irrepressible signal of inward agitation. 

 "I'm very much interested," said she. 

 "Yes, she was a curiosity," said he carelessly. 

 "Has she been there—long?" inquired Josephine, with a feigned indifference that did not deceive him. 

 "Several months, I believe. I never noticed her until a few days ago. And until to-day I had forgotten her. She's one of the kind it's difficult to remember." 

 He fell to glancing round the house, pretending to be unconscious of the furtive suspicion with which she was observing him. She said: 

 "She's your secretary now?" 

 "Merely a general office typewriter." 

 The curtain went up for the second act. Josephine fixed her attention on the stage—apparently undivided attention. But Norman felt rather than saw that she was still worrying about the "curiosity." He marveled at this outcropping of jealousy. It seemed ridiculous—it was ridiculous. He laughed to himself. If she could see the girl—the obscure, uninteresting cause of her agitation—how she would mock at herself! Then, too, there was the absurdity of thinking him capable of such a stoop. A woman of their own class—or a woman of its corresponding class, on the other side of the line—yes. No doubt she had 

 Prev. P 33/247 next