Henry had never cared for Philip who, in his own private opinion, should have never gone any distance at all, but on the present occasion he could only offer up a very ineffective "Yes."
"Very well. You have never been anybody's secretary before?"
"No, sir."
"And you understand that I am giving you a month's trial entirely on your brother-in-law's recommendation?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what"—here the nose shot out and forward in most alarming fashion—"do you understand a secretary's duties to be?"
Henry smiled rather to give himself confidence than for any other very definite reason. "Well, sir, I should say that you would want to me to write letters to your dictation and keep your papers in order and, perhaps, to interview people whom you don't wish to see yourself and—and,—possibly to entrust me with missions of importance."
"Hum. . . . Quite. . . . I understand that you can typewrite and that you know shorthand?"
"Well, sir"—here Henry smiled again—"I think I had better be frank with you from the beginning. I don't typewrite very well. I told Philip not to lay much emphasis on that. And my shorthand is pretty quick, but I can't generally read it afterwards."
"Indeed! And would you mind telling me why, with these deficiencies, you fancied that you would make me a good secretary?"