“What!” cried Jeanette; “what nonsense! I am Frances Arundel. I wrote that letter you hold in your hand, and I have called to see if you can give me a position.”
“You wrote this letter?”
“Of course I did. I also wrote on the paper which I just gave to your office boy. If you will compare the two, you’ll find them the same penmanship.”
This seemed sensible enough, and Mr. Irving looked at both papers, and as Jeanette had written the letter, a glance was sufficient to show that they were indeed by the same hand.
“What does this mean?” said Mr. Irving, looking sternly at Dorothy.
“Forgive me,” pleaded the little rogue, looking very sad and remorseful; “I oughtn’t to have done it, I know, but I overheard this lady in the street-car saying she was coming to see you to-day, to ask you for a position, so I thought I’d come ahead of her, and—and—maybe I could get it. I need it more than she does.”
Dorothy cast a beseeching glance at Jeanette, who returned it with a haughty look.
“I can’t help what she needs,” said Jeanette, turning away from Dorothy, who was pretending to be almost weeping. “I came to ask you for a position, not out of charity, but because my uncle was your chum at college, and—”
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Irving; “I never heard of Roger Arundel.”
“Oh, you must have forgotten him, then,” said Jeanette, tossing her head, as if it were a matter of no moment. “But I’d like a position all the same. I’m a competent secretary, and can give satisfaction, I’m sure.”