“I don’t think C. B. would like it; I don’t think he would want to have a secretary who was married to somebody in the same office.”
Jeannette felt that this would be a fact. No matter how well she might please Mr. Corey, a secretary who was married to another employee of the company would not be satisfactory. It was highly probable that in the event of her marriage he would be unwilling for her to continue with him.
No, it was plain that if she married Roy, she must resign, she must let go her ambition, her hopes for success in business, and she must accept Flatbush, and the dismal little brick house, the unprepossessing neighbors, and the lonely, lonely days.
Well—suppose—suppose—suppose she didn’t marry!
The relief the idea brought was startling. But she couldn’t bring herself to give up Roy,—she couldn’t hurt him! She loved him,—she loved him dearly! Never in the last few months since he had come back to her from California had she been so sure she loved him as now. Those eager blue eyes of his, that unruly stuck-up hair, that quaint smile, that supple, boyish figure,—so sinuous and young and clean,—she couldn’t give them up!
A battle began within her. It was the old struggle,—the struggle of ambition and independence, against love and drudgery, for marriage meant that to her; she could think of it in no other way.
Daily in her work at the office, she felt a steady progress; daily, she beheld herself becoming increasingly efficient; daily, more and more important matters were entrusted to her.
“Thank you very much, Miss Sturgis.” “That’s fine, Miss Sturgis.” “Please arrange this, Miss Sturgis.” “Miss Sturgis, will you kindly attend to this matter yourself?”
These from Mr. Corey, and in the office she overheard:
“Well,—get Miss Sturgis to do that.” “Better ask Miss Sturgis.” “Miss Sturgis will know.” “If you want C. B.’s O.K., get Miss Sturgis to put it up to him.”