In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled.
The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands moved the drying pages. “You see, I never worked for an author before. I suspect I have a lot to learn.”
She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing.
“I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't you? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the 'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?”
It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: “I owe you an apology, Miss Williams,” he said.
“Indeed, no,” Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript again. “It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something; and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another that apologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?”
That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,—the way she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with a question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one agreed or not.
Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that “upsetments” were quite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. “But I am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams,” he said in a way that sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince himself that his trouble really was serious.
Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big gray eyes.
“Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, I may just as well begin right here, don't you think?”