"I suppose it's all right," Julia said. "It seems different, somehow, from what we had expected, and he never goes to the Clarion at all."
"Why should he?" Aaron demanded. "They are all jealous of him, every one of 'em; Peter Dale is the worst of the lot. Didn't you hear how they talked to him at Manchester?"
She nodded, and for a time they went on with their work. She found herself, however, continually returning to the subject of those vital differences; the Maraton as they had dreamed of him—the prophet with the flaming sword, and this wonderfully civilised person.
"Tell me honestly, Aaron," she asked presently, "what do you think of it all?—of him—of his methods? You are with him all the time. Haven't you ever any doubts?"
She watched him closely. She would have been conscious of the slightest tremor in his reply, the slightest hesitation. There was nothing of the sort. He was merely tolerant of her ignorance.
"No one who knows Maraton," he pronounced, "could fail to trust him."
After that she asked no more questions. They worked steadily for another half hour or so. Messages were sometimes brought in to Aaron, which he summarily disposed of. Julia wondered at the new facility, the heart-whole eagerness which he devoted to every trifling matter. Then, just as she was halfway through copying out a pile of figures, Maraton came in. He stood and watched them in the doorway, half amused, half surprised. For a moment she kept her head down. Then she looked up slowly.
"Since when," he asked, "have I been the proud possessor of two secretaries?"
"You left me letters enough for four, sir," Aaron reminded him. "I wanted to finish them all, so Julia stayed to help me."
Maraton came smiling towards them.