Mr. Smith said a sharp word behind his teeth.
“Do?” he cried then wrathfully. “First, don’t you worry another bit, Miss Flora. Second, just hand those letters over to me—every one of them. I’ll attend to ’em!”
“To you?” gasped Miss Flora. “But—how can you?”
“Oh, I’ll be your secretary. Most rich people have to have secretaries, you know.”
“But how’ll you know how to answer my letters?” demanded Miss Flora dubiously. “Have you ever been—a secretary?”
“N-no, not exactly a secretary. But—I’ve had some experience with similar letters,” observed Mr. Smith dryly.
Miss Flora drew a long sigh.
“Oh, dear! I wish you could. Do you think you can? I hoped maybe you could help me some way, but I never thought of that—your answering ’em, I mean. I supposed everybody had to answer their own letters. How’ll you know what I want to say?”
Mr. Smith laughed a little.
“I shan’t be answering what you want to say—but what _I_ want to say. In this case, Miss Flora, I exceed the prerogatives of the ordinary secretary just a bit, you see. But you can count on one thing—I shan’t be spending any money for you.”