hered that she had found him rather exacting,
and also that she was inclined to resent his curt manner. Withal,
Hazel knew Nelly Morrison to be a first-class stenographer, and found
herself wondering how long it would take the managing partner to find
occasion for raking _her_ over the coals.

As the days passed, she began to wonder whether Miss Morrison had been
quite correct in her summing up of Mr. Andrew Bush. She was not a
great deal in his company, for unless attending to the details of
business Mr. Bush kept himself in a smaller office opening out of the
one where she worked. Occasionally the odor of cigar smoke escaped
therefrom, and in that inner sanctum he received his most important
callers. Whenever he was in Miss Weir's presence, however, he
manifested none of the disagreeable characteristics that Nelly Morrison
had ascribed to him.

The size of the check which Hazel received in her weekly envelope was
increased far beyond her expectations. Nelly Morrison had drawn twenty
dollars a week. Miss Hazel Weir drew twenty-five--a substantial
increase over what she had received in the shipping department. And
while she wondered a trifle at the voluntary raising of her salary, it
served to make her anxious to competently fill the new position, so
long as she worked for wages. With that extra money there were plenty
of little things she could get for the home she and Jack Barrow had
planned.

Things moved along in routine channels for two months or more before
Hazel became actively aware that a subtle change was growing manifest
in the ordinary manner of Mr. Andrew Bush. She shrugged her shoulders
at the idea at first. But she was a woman; moreover, a woman of
intelligence, her perceptive faculties naturally keen.

The first symptom was flowers, dainty bouquets of which began to appear
on his desk. Coincident with this, Mr. Bush evinced an inclination to
drift into talk on subjects nowise related to business. Hazel accepted
the tribute to her sex reluctantly, giving him no encouragement to
overstep the normal bounds of cordiality. She was absolutely sure of
herself and of her love for Jack Barrow. Furthermore, Mr. Andrew Bush,
though well preserved, was drawing close to fifty--and she was
twenty-two. That in itself reassured her. If he had been thirty, Miss
Weir might have felt herself upon dubious ground. He admired her as a
woman. She began to realize that. And no woman ever blames a man for