"I—I'd rather you wouldn't," said Clancy.
Randall's face reddened. He colored, Clancy thought, more easily and frequently than any man she'd known.
The waiter brought her change. She gave him fifteen cents, an exact ten per cent. of her bill, and rose. Then she bent over to pick up her evening paper. Randall forestalled her. He handed it to her, and his eyes lighted on the "want ad" columns.
"You aren't looking for work, are you?" he asked. "I mean—I don't want to be rude, but——"
"Well?" said Clancy coldly.
"I—if you happened to know stenography—do you?"
"Well?" she said again.
"I need a—stenographer," he blurted.
She eyed him.
"You move rapidly, don't you?"