“But Mrs. Merrill isn't here this spring.” In spite of its quiver the voice was very sweet.
“No,” she started to turn away, “I'll have to put it off again, I suppose. I've looked everywhere.”
She took a step or two, hesitated, then returned to the desk.
“You're positive there isn't a single one of the small rooms left?” she pleaded. “I wouldn't care how far back it was,—anything would do. You can't think how I hate to give up. I had so hoped to finish it this time!”
The man shook his head.
“No, we're absolutely full just now. Later on there might be something,—after the season is over.”
“But that will be after school begins,” answered the girl bitterly. “I can't work at all then!” and catching up a bag fully as shabby as the hat, she hurried away.
“Who is she?” asked Blair abruptly, overlooking for the moment his original purpose in seeking the man.
“School-teacher from Pasadena,” replied the clerk briefly. “Teaches art in some private school over there, I believe.” He eyed Blair amusedly. “Think you've met her before somewhere?”
Blair allowed his annoyance to show. “No, never laid eyes on her till just now. But I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her,” he persisted. “She seemed so sort of cut up. What's the trouble?”