"I'm ashamed," said Bonbright, chokingly.
"You needn't be," she said. "Dad told us all about it. I thought the other night I should like you. Now I'm sure of it." She owned her father's directness.
"You're good," he said.
"No—reasonable," she answered.
He sat silent, thinking. "Do you know," he said, presently, "what a lot girls have to do with making a fellow's life endurable?… Since I went to work I—I've felt really GOOD only twice. Both times it was a girl. The other one just grinned at me when I was feeling down on my luck. It was a dandy grin…. And now you…"
"Tell me about her," she said.
"She's my secretary now. Little bit of a thing, but she grins at all the world… Socialist, too, or anarchist or something. I made them give her to me for my secretary so I could see her grin once in a while."
"I'd like to see her."
"I don't know her," said Bonbright. "She's just my secretary. I'll bet she'd be bully to know."
Hilda Lightener would not have been a woman had she not wondered about this girl who had made such an impression on Bonbright. It was not that she sensed a possible rival. She had not interested herself in Bonbright to the point where a rival could matter. But—she would like to see that girl.