“I know Miss Clare like my own sister,” I told him. “I’ve met her a thousand times. I’ve read her in books and seen her in movies—”
“Oh, that!” said Graves. “Well, you’re entirely wrong, you chump. She’s absolutely original.”
“I knew that,” said I. “She makes the most wonderful clothes for herself out of old quilts, and she can get up the most delicious little suppers for two for thirty cents—”
He laughed, with that disarming good humor of his.
“Well, I haven’t got as far as that yet,” he said. “I don’t know what she eats or[Pg 83] makes her clothes out of, but I can tell you this—she’s the neatest, most sensible-looking girl in the place!”
When I saw Miss Clare, I had to admit that in some ways she deviated from the usual type. She was what you might call a tall, willowy blonde. She had fine eyes, and knew it; but she was not kittenish, or pathetic, or appealing. She was doggedly in earnest. I liked her for that.
When I knew her better, I liked her for many other things, too. She was as honest and candid as daylight, and she left her fine old Southern family and her college and all her past glories where they belonged. She was there to work.
I was really sorry when the efficient Miss Kelly spoke about her.
“She’s stupid!” she told me, with fierce exasperation. “I’ve told Mr. Graves several times that she doesn’t measure up to our standard of efficiency. I don’t see why he keeps her on!”
“Beauty in daily life,” said I. “It’s what Morris recommended. She’s an ornament to the office, Miss Kelly. She has artistic value.”