"You may as well sit down. I want to talk to you."
She sat down in the chair of Mr. Meggison's absent stenographer. By this time the pink of her cheeks had deepened to red. She was wondering more than ever
what he was going to do, and what she would do when he had done it. But as she sat facing him she realized that she was no longer afraid. She felt a sense of power and resource.
"Are you surprised that I remember your name, Miss Child?" he asked.
"I don't know the custom," she replied primly. Would he expect her to say "Sir?" Anyhow, she wouldn't! She compromised with a dainty meekness which might be interpreted as respect for a superior. Mr. Meggison fixed her with a sharp look which would have detected the impudence of a lurking laugh.
"That's a funny answer," said he. "You 'don't know the custom!' Well, my idea of you is, you don't know much about any business customs, on our side of the water or yours either." As he spoke he watched her face to catch any guilty flicker of an eyelid. "I want you to tell me what was your idea in going for a job with us."
"I saw your advertisement for extra hands."
"The woods—I mean the papers—are full of advertisements. What made you pick out ours?"
"I'd tried to get other things and failed."
"So we were a last resort, eh?"