"Cupid? Why Cupid?" Herbert Toftrees asked, in his deep voice.
"Oh, it's a name we gave her at school," Muriel answered, looking at her friend, and both girls began to laugh.
Mr. Amberley re-engaged the girl in talk.
"You have done some literary work, have you not?" he asked kindly, and in a lower voice.
Again her face changed. Its first virginal demureness, the sudden flashing splendour of her smile, had gone alike. It became eager and wistful too.
"You can't call it that, Mr. Amberley," she replied in a voice pitched to his own key. "I've written a few stories which have been published and I've had three articles in the Saturday edition of the Westminster—that's nearly everything. But I can't say how I love it all! It is delightful to have my work among books—at the Podley Library you know. I learned typewriting and shorthand and was afraid that I should have to go into a city office—and then this turned up."
She hesitated for a moment, and then stopped shyly. He could see that the girl was afraid of boring him. A moment before, she had been perfectly collected and aware—a girl in his own rank of life responsive to his chaff. Now she realised that she was speaking of things very near and dear to her—and speaking of them to a high-priest of those Mysteries she loved—one holding keys to unlock all doors.
He took her in a moment, understood the change of mood and expression, and it was subtle flattery. Like all intelligent and successful men, recognition was not the least of his rewards. That this engaging child, even, knew him for what he was gave him an added interest in her. All Muriel's girl friends adored him. He was the nicest and most generous of unofficial Papas!—but this was different.
"Don't say that, my dear. Never depreciate yourself or belittle what you have done. I suppose you are about Muriel's age, twenty-one or two—yes?—then let me tell you that you have done excellently well."
"That is kind of you."