“Well,” he said, scowling, “the difference is so small that no one but an idiot would laugh. I might have said ‘sheer hosiery’ and ‘chiffon blouses.’”
Graves talking about chiffon blouses was too much. He regretted those “Suggestions,” and made no more. We subscribed to a fashion magazine for him, and by a most pleasing error it came addressed to “Miss F. Graves.” This was even better than we had planned.
II
One day Graves came to me with a beaming face.
“You know I don’t often express an opinion on an untried worker,” he said; “but this time I’ve made a find. I’ve got just the sort of girl I want in the office. She’s a college graduate; comes of an old Southern family—”
“And her father died, and she was obliged to go out into the world and earn a living,” I said.
He was amazed.
“How did you find out about that?” he demanded.
“She hasn’t had any experience,” I continued; “but ah, what class!”
“Now see here,” said Graves. “You’ve been talking to Miss Clare!”