employ whom he pleased without
giving reasons. Annette watched him, and before he could speak she
went on again.

"I'm not complaining," she said. Her voice was even and very low.
"But there's something wrong with me, isn't there? I saw how you
looked at me at first. Well, it wouldn't cost you anything, and it
would help me a lot, if you'd just tell me what it is that's wrong.
You see, nobody will have me, and it's getting rather rather
desperate. So if you'd just tell me, perhaps I could alter something,
and have a chance at last."

Her serious eyes, the pallor of her face, and the level tones of her
voice held him like a hand on his throat. He was a man with the
cordial nature of his race, prone to an easy kindliness, who would
have suffered almost any ill rather than feel himself guilty of a
cruelty. But how could he speak to her of the true reason for
refusing her the son in the business, the avid young debauchee whose
victims were girls in the firm's employ?

"If you'd just tell me what it is, I wouldn't bother you any more,
and it might make all the difference to me," Annette was saying.

She saw him redden and shift sharply in his chair; an impulse of his
ardent blood was spurring him to give her the work she needed, and
then so to deal with his son that he would never dare lift his eyes
to her. But the instinct of caution developed in business came to
damp that dangerous warmth.

"Mademoiselle!" He returned her look gravely and honestly. "Upon my
word, I can see nothing whatever wrong with you nothing whatever."

"Then," began Annette, "why won't you?"

He stopped her with an upraised hand. "I am going to tell you," he
said. "There is a rule in this office, and behind the rule are good
and sufficient reasons, that we do not take into our employ women who
are still young and pretty."

She heard him with no change of her rigid countenance. She
understood, of course; she had known in her time what it was to be
persecuted. She would have liked to tell him that she was well able
to take care of herself, but she recalled her promise not to bother
him further.

She sighed, buttoning her glove. "It's a pity," she said unhappily,
"because I really am a good typist."

"I am sure of it," he agreed. "I infinitely regret, but sa y est!"

She raised her head. "Well, thank you for telling me, at any rate,"
she said. "Good morning, monsieur."

"Good morning, mademoiselle," he replied, and held open the door for