"I mean," said Dorothy quietly, "that a man who could invent the Destroyer ought to be able to learn how to talk to—to—be nice to a girl." The last five words came tumbling over each other, as if she had found great difficulty in uttering them, and then had thrown them all out at one time.
"Say," he began, hope shining from his eyes. Then he stopped abruptly and walked over to his chair, throwing himself into it with a sigh. "You mean."
"Perhaps," said Dorothy, dropping her eyes and playing about with a fastening on her blouse, "I might be able to help you." Then after a pause she added, "You know you got me a rise."
And then John Dene smiled. "Say, this is great," he cried. "I—I——" Then suddenly he jumped up, dashed for his hat and made for the door. As he opened it he threw over his shoulder:
"We'll start right in to-morrow. I'm through with work for to-day. I'll be over to-night."
Then suddenly Dorothy laughed. "Was ever maid so wooed?" she murmured. "But——" and she left it at that.
As she thrust the pins into her hat, she decided that John Dene had been right. It would have been awkward to—to—well, to do anything but go home.
Just as she was about to lock the outer door of the office, she had an inspiration. Returning to her table she removed her gloves and, after a few minutes' thought and reference to the London Directory, she sat down to her typewriter and for a few minutes her fingers moved busily over the keys.
With a determined air she pulled the sheet from the clips and read:—
"JOHN DENE OF TORONTO. Lesson 1.
Tailors . . . Pond and Co., 130 Sackville Street.
Hosiers . . . Tye Brothers, 320 Jermyn Street.
Bootmakers . Ease & Treadwell, 630 Bond Street.
Hatters . . . Messrs. Bincoln and Lennet, Piccadilly.
When a man knows his job, let him do it and don't butt in."