heard things that made her uneasy, or, at least, ready to be uneasy. But this poorly dressed obscurity, with not a charm that could attract even a man of her own lowly class—It was such a good joke that he would have teased Josephine about it but for his knowledge of the world—a knowledge in whose primer it was taught that teasing is both bad taste and bad judgment. Also, it was beneath his dignity, it was offense to his vanity, to couple his name with the name of one so beneath him that even the matter of sex did not make the coupling less intolerable. 

 When the curtain fell several people came into the box, and he went to make a few calls round the parterre. He returned after the second act. They were again alone—the deaf old aunt did not count. At once Josephine began upon the same subject. With studied indifference—how amusing for a woman of her inexperience to try to fool a man of his experience!—she said: 

 "Tell me some more about that typewriter girl. Women who work always interest me." 

 "She wouldn't," said Norman. The subject had been driven clean out of his mind, and he didn't wish to return to it. "Some day they will venture to make judicious long cuts in Wagner's operas, and then they'll be interesting. It always amuses me, this reverence of little people for the great ones—as if a great man were always great. No—he is always great. But often it's in a dull way. And the dull parts ought to be skipped." 

 "I don't like the opera this evening," said she. "What you said a while ago has set me to thinking. Is that girl a lady?" 

 "She works," laughed he. 

 "But she might have been a lady." 

 "I'm sure I don't know." 

 "Don't you know anything about her?" 

 "Except that she's trustworthy—and insignificant and not too good at her business." 

 "I shouldn't think you could afford to keep incompetent people," said the girl shrewdly. 

 "Perhaps they won't keep her," parried Norman gracefully. "The head clerk looks after those things." 

 "He probably likes her." 

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