"His father was a large manufacturer of cheap—but I don't say injurious—sweets. Simon Smith is a very rich man and a philanthropist. I have met him on committees—all of which he has left. I entirely disapprove of his methods, entirely, but that's no reason why I should not tell you that he has a vacancy for a secretary. I advise you to go and see him."
"I certainly shall. Shall I say I'm your favourite niece?"
"Not if you want to get the post," he said grimly.
The next morning Theresa presented herself at Mr. Smith's large front door, and was ushered into a sunny room where a spruce young man was sitting. He rose, bowed in a bored manner, and spoke rapidly.
"You are Miss Webb? Please sit down. I understand you are applying for the post Mr. Smith has vacant. What are your qualifications? Oh, very well, then will you please take down this letter, type it, and let me have it as soon as possible. Will you come to the table?"
She drew off her gloves slowly and sat down, awaiting his first words with a look of pleasant expectation. He gave back a blind and stony gaze.
"Dear Sir——" She bent her head over the paper.
He carefully examined the typewritten copy, and announced that Mr. Smith would see her. The sobriety of his face had not relaxed as he opened the door which communicated with an inner room, and he did not respond to Theresa's tilted smile of thanks.
"Miss Webb, sir," he said, and disappeared.
Beyond the names she could give for reference, Mr. Smith said he only wanted to know three things: had she good health—in particular, was she free from colds in the head which he considered the most objectionable known complaint? Would she begin work at eight o'clock each morning? And would she promise to wear shoes that did not squeak?