"We can't help it."
"Why?"
"You see, Father inherited this fight from his partner. He's dead. It's a long story. Dad will be sure to tell you some day."
Betty burned with eagerness to hear this story, to know more about her father, yet she dared not press her questions, and suddenly Bob became silent. Then, as if restless, he rose from the davenport and strolled over to one of the windows, then turned again, toying with a cigarette case.
"Do you mind?" he asked politely, indicating the silver box.
"No, I like it," she said. It was evident that he had no intention of going and she must begin this copying if she was ever to get it finished. The time had come when she must demonstrate her ability to use the keys. So, gathering up a pile of letters, she moved resolutely over to the typewriter.
"This machine is very dusty," she decided, after a preliminary examination. "Here's a brush to clean the keys, but—do you suppose I could have a little olive oil?" she asked.
"Why, certainly, I'll get you some," and he hurried off, thus giving Betty a few minutes for preliminary practice. Fortunately, the keyboard was the one she knew already and she soon found, to her great relief, that she could do the work fairly well.
When Bob returned with the oil Betty thanked him sweetly and then, while she fussed with the levers, managed tactfully to turn the conversation back to Mr. Baxter's partner. And presently she learned the sickening truth that Hiram Baxter's present difficulties were entirely due to the fact that her father had been led into speculation.
"It was the old story, Miss Thompson; he thought he could pull a fortune out of the market, but——" Bob shrugged his shoulders.