“H’m, well, we don’t have our letters copied by hand. I’m afraid, Miss Arundel, I can’t give you a position.”
“Oh, please, sir,”—Dorothy’s lip quivered a little,—“we’re quite poor. Mother tried to take in sewing, but she’s ill now, and—and I’m the only support of the family. Do let me address envelopes or something!”
Mr. Irving was very much embarrassed. He had never had an experience just like this before. Clearly, the girl was a refined little gentlewoman, and all unused to the business world.
He judged her to be about eighteen or twenty, and wondered what he could do for her.
He looked over the letter again.
“You say your great-uncle spoke of me? Where is your uncle now?”
“He’s—he’s not living, sir,” said Dorothy, looking down. “And I’m sure you’re the Mr. Irving he meant, because he said you were so kind-hearted.”
Naturally this touched the old gentleman’s heart, and he truly wanted to help the girl. But in his office he employed only skilled workers, and there was no place for Dorothy.
“Bless my soul, child,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do with you! Arundel—Roger Arundel. No, he was not in my class, but he may have been in the college while I was there. However, I’d be glad to help you if I could,—but I can’t think of a thing for you to do.”
“No?” said Dorothy, but with a hopeful inflection in her tone, as if perhaps he might yet think of something.