“I’m Frances Defoe—Mrs. Defoe’s granddaughter, you know. My sister told me how nice you’d been about—Grandma and the rent, so I thought perhaps you’d be good enough to—oh, to give me a little advice.”
“Please sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Now!”
“I want something to do, work of some sort. I heard that you were the most progressive man in the village, so I thought you’d be the best one to consult.”
He was pleased and embarrassed by the compliment, which he knew to be merited.
“I don’t suppose,” she went on, in her clear, somewhat imperious voice, “that there’s much opportunity here, is there?”
He had found opportunities enough; still he answered, no, not many, but that perhaps——
“Have you had any sort of experience?” he asked.
She said no; but that she’d studied a lot and was good at mathematics and figures in general, and knew something of French and German.
“And I can type a little,” she added. “I used to do my essays and things on a typewriter at college.”
“Fine!” said Mr. Petersen. “Now, let’s see where that would fit in.”