The benison of perfect peace now enfolded her.
Poor little Miss Gerson—well, after all, life is a game, the loser pays, and the winner can be perfectly philosophical about it.
Georgia went to the old man's private office and closed the door behind her.
"Yes, sir." She stood at attention, pad and pencil ready.
"Will you take these please, Miss Connor? Mr. James Serviss—here's his address," the old man tossed the letter he was answering over to her. "Dear Sir: Replying to yours of the 16th inst, we regret that——. Well, tell him it's impossible. Write the letter yourself. You understand!" He was observing her as if to probe her resourcefulness.
"Perfectly, sir."
"Miss Belmont saved me a great deal of trouble in that way. She could tell what I would want to say." Miss Belmont was the blonde girl who had married and left a vacancy.
"I can do the same, sir."
"Well, here are some more," continued the old man. "This—No." He tossed another letter to her. She made a shorthand notation in the corner of it. "This—By all means,—and be polite about it. This—An appointment to-morrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir."