The young auditor might be frowning and pulling his mustache because he had recently acquired a chorus lady for a stepmother. The tall, red-puffed girl with the open-work waist and abrupt curves might, as had been suspected, be no better than she should be. It wouldn't surprise Georgia greatly if that was so.
But, she reflected, what of it? None of them mattered to her, just as she mattered to none of them.
For everyone she supposed it was much the same; four or five people one knew and the rest strangers.
She slipped some paper into the machine to try her fingers. She wrote hadn't, "hand't" and stenographer, "stonegrapher." She was not pleased to find whoever had been subbing for her had put a black ribbon on her machine. She liked purple better.
Mechanically she pulled at the upper left-hand drawer where she had kept her note books and pencils, but it was locked. And she didn't have the key. She had sent it by Al from the hospital.
Miss Gerson walked briskly to the desk. "Oh," she said, "Miss Connor, you're back."
"Yes. How do you do!" They shook hands.
"That's fine—you do look a little pale—we were all so sorry to hear of your illness. I've been your understudy," she gave a little sigh, "using your desk. I'm afraid its cluttered up with my things. If I'd only known you were returning to-day I'd have left it spick and span for you." She took out the key and unlocked the master drawer, which released the others, and removed her notebook, pencils, erasers, some picture postal cards, a broken-crystalled lady's watch, an apple and a book on etiquette.
"I think the old man's just fine to work for, don't you!" she asked as she collected her belongings.
"Indeed I do," said Georgia jealously. "Will you be at the club for lunch to-day?"