"Such talent is very scarce in New Orleans now, but if you can manage with my clerk, Miss Bascom, who is fairly efficient, you are welcome to her services—if she does not object," was the only thing I could say.
"I think she will do; in fact, almost any one," he assured me.
But somehow I felt that I was doing the wrong thing, for it suddenly occurred to me that Miss Bascom's attitude or position was so clouded and mysterious that, until I knew more, I should not trust her with anything important. But Hiram Strong, Sr., was not a man to be refused.
When Miss Bascom came in I introduced her and was about to explain what was wanted, when I stopped in amazement. The moment I mentioned the name "Mr. Strong" her face became white as marble, she raised her hand as though to advance and greet him, but it fell and she stood as though petrified, while I explained what he desired.
"I—I hope I will be able to serve you," she managed to say, while she gazed fixedly at him. I could not guess whether it was fear or other excitement.
"My work is simple correspondence, and I am sure you will be able to manage it," he replied assuringly, and I was not certain whether he was admiring her quail-like figure and unusually pretty face, or, like myself, was trying to divine the unusual excitement under the light bronze hair.
"I will do my best," she managed to say, beginning to edge away toward her desk by the window.
"Would it be asking too much for you to come out to the car? It is just under the train shed."
"Not at all, with Mr. Taylor's permission," she replied quickly, in a more natural tone. I nodded approval without looking at her, but did not relax my endeavor to see if Hiram Strong, Sr., had missed anything and decided he had not. He was not of that sort.