"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address."
At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted into her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got of him!"
Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked.
"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It was too tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me—the way I dressed—the way I talked—said I was getting too free in my manner. The impudence of him!"
Norman tried to smile.
"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever."
"So you've been—blossoming out?" said Norman.
"In a quiet way," replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovely as a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn't much chance for fun—unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time I don't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work. I got very cross with him—Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't pay quite so well—only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand being watched—and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it."
"Where are you working?"
"With an old lawyer named Branscombe. It's awful slow, as I'm the only one, and he's old and does everything in an old-fashioned way. But the hours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine—which is nice when you've been out at a dance the night before."