"That is nothing," he said, with the simplicity of good breeding. "Tell me of this wonderful news."
"It's the most extraordinary, the most miraculous news," she said, with a long breath. "You remember that advertisement I showed you? Well, there came an answer to it—an answer! Here it is." She handed him one of several letters she had snatched up from the table. "It is from a very great man, you see; but, of course, it is one of his secretaries who writes. It is from a real live marquess!—Lord Sutcombe. Of course, you have heard of him?"
Mr. Clendon nodded affirmatively.
"He is well known."
"Though I had no hope of getting the situation, I sent some letters of poor Mr. Bishop's as testimonials, and this morning—oh, it is almost incredible—I received this letter, informing me that my testimonials were satisfactory, and that I had obtained the post. And what do you think it is? Oh, the most delightful of all work—the very thing I would have chosen! It is to arrange, and catalogue, and generally take care of a large library. And the salary—this is the most wonderful part of the whole fairy tale—is to be £150 a year. Think of it! One—hundred—and-fifty—pounds a year!"
"It is a very good salary," said Mr. Clendon. "I congratulate you."
She laid her hand on the wrinkled one which rested on his stick.
"But don't you think it is quite extraordinary? Surely one does not usually get such a post as this so easily as I have done! There is a kind of magic in it. You"—she looked at him keenly, searchingly—"Mr. Clendon, have you had any hand in this?"
He looked up at her and shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you think it is likely that I consort with marquesses or have any influence with them?" he asked, with a smile.