To hide his own distress and hers, he promptly gave her something to type—he didn’t care what—and sat down at his own desk, where he pretended to work. But he knew, without venturing to turn his head, that she was stealthily wiping her eyes, and he was sure there had been some serious trouble at home. A five-mile walk along that dusty road, on an August day! Poor girl!
There had indeed been a classic and unforgettable encounter, ending in a drawn battle. She couldn’t get it out of her head, no matter how she tried to concentrate her attention on this new work.
In the first place, her sister and her grandmother had both protested passionately against her plan as soon as they heard of it. She had gone home triumphantly to tell them that she had a “job” at eight dollars a week, in Mr. Petersen’s office.
“Why, child!” cried the old lady, affronted. “What an idea!”
She was really shocked. A Defoe working for a Petersen!
Minnie, too, was shocked; they both argued, reasoned and expostulated, but to no avail. Then Minnie, to the point:
“How do you expect to get there, Frankie?”
Her sister was slightly crestfallen.
“I thought you’d drive me in,” she admitted, “I’d pay you for it.”
“Thank you!” said Minnie, coldly. “But I couldn’t possibly. At that time in the morning, with all the work to be done.”