“You did wonderfully well,” Miss Gresham assured her. “And you’ve put yourself in a position where your work will be noted and, if it’s good, recognised. The hardest thing in the world is to get disentangled from the crowd so that those above are able to see one.”
The routine of petty assignments into which she sank again was wearisome and distasteful. She had expected a better kind of work. Instead, she got the same work as before. As Coleman was giving her one of these trifles, he looked cautiously round to make sure that no one was within hearing distance, then said in a low voice: “Don’t blame me for giving you poor assignments. I have orders from Mr. Stilson—strict orders.”
Emily did not like Coleman’s treachery to his superior, but her stronger feeling was anger against Stilson. “Why does he dislike me?” she thought. “What a mean creature he is. It must be some queer sort of jealous envy.” She laughed at herself for this vanity. But she had more faith in it than she thought, and it was with the latent idea of getting it a prop that she repeated to Miss Gresham what Coleman had said. “Why do you think Mr. Stilson told him that?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I can’t imagine,” replied Miss Gresham. She reflected a moment and then turned her head so that Emily could not see her eyes. She thought she had guessed the reason. “Stilson is trying to save her from the consequences of her vanity,” she said to herself, “I had better not tell her, as it would do no good and might make her dislike me.” And watching Emily more closely, she soon discovered that premature triumph had been a little too much for her good sense. Emily was entertaining an opinion of herself far higher than the facts warranted. “Stilson is doing her a service,” Miss Gresham thought, as Emily complained from time to time of trifling assignments. “He’ll restore her point of view presently.”
After a month of this Stilson called her into his office. He stood at the window, tall and stern—he was taller than Marlowe and dark; and while Marlowe’s expression was one of good-humoured, rather cynical carelessness, his was grave and haughty.
Without looking at her he began: “Miss Bromfield, we’ve been giving you a very important kind of work—the small items. They are the test of a newspaper’s standard of perfection. I’m afraid you don’t appreciate their importance.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” said Emily coldly.
He frowned, but she watched him narrowly, and saw that he was suffering acute embarrassment. “It isn’t easy for me to speak to you,” he went on. “But—it’s necessary. At first you did well. Now—you’re not doing well.”
There was a long, a painful silence. Then he suddenly looked at her. And in spite of herself, his expression melted resentment and obstinacy. “You can do well again,” he said. “Please try.”
The tone of the “Please try” made her feel his fairness and friendliness as she had not felt it before. “Thank you,” she said impulsively. “I will try.” She paused at the door and turned. “Thank you,” she said again, earnestly. He was bending over his desk and seemed to be giving his attention to his papers. But Emily understood him well enough now to know that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. When she was almost hidden from him by the closing door, she heard him begin to speak. “I beg your pardon,” she said, showing her head round the edge of the door, “What did you say?”