"My work does not depend on Mr. Neville," she said. "Except for the few letters he dictates every morning our work is quite distinct. There's no reason why I should go early."
"Very well, very well. I thought you looked tired, that's all. Do as you please. Do as you please. Of course, the house and the whole concern is entirely under your management!"
She smiled at him, he smiled at her: they understood each other very well and, pleased with her little show of power, she glanced at Morton, surprising from him a look so tender and unguarded that her face was crimsoned. She felt that even her eyes were blushing, and she covered them with rosy lids, hating her weakness, hating him, yet conscious of a new respect for a man who could make her flinch.
In the afternoon a knock came at the office door, and Morton entered at Theresa's bidding.
"I wondered if I could help you," he said; "for, indeed, you do look very tired." He stood near her chair, looking down at her. His eyes were deep and soft, the lines of his face were firm and fine. He seemed firm and fine all over: his hands, his clothes, his figure, belonged to a type of man she had not known: he stood for something orderly and seemly, something her life had missed.
"I am not tired," she said. "And I don't think you can help. Thank you. It would be more trouble to tell you what to do. I don't suppose you can use a typewriter?"
"No." He felt the vastness of his ignorance. "But I think I could learn."
"It's not much harder than organ grinding." Laughter crept slyly about her eyes and mouth. "Would you like to try?"
"I should, very much."
"Then you may take the typewriter into the library. It's rather an irritating noise to work with, but I shan't hear it from there. And then, some other day, you may be useful."