The girl responded with an unaffected diffidence apparently pleasing in the eyes of her prospective employer.
"My niece has been telling me about you," she said with an engaging smile; "and I am already inclined to be grateful to her. It isn't often--truth to tell--she makes such prompt acknowledgment of my demands. And I'm a most disorderly person, so I miss very much the services of my former secretary. Do come nearer."
Sally drew within arm's-length, and the elder woman put out a hand and caught the girl's in a firm, cool, friendly grasp.
"Your first name?" she inquired with a look of keen yet not unpleasant scrutiny.
"Sarah," said Sarah bluntly. "Man'aring" stuck in her guilty throat.
"S-a-r-a," Mrs. Standish punctiliously spelled it out.
"Thank you; I recognise it now." A shrewd, sidelong glance flickered amusement at Mrs. Gosnold's niece. "You come from the middle West, I understand, and you've had rather a hard time of it in New York. What do you do best?" "Why--I've tried to write," Sally confessed shyly.
"Oh? Novels?"
"Not quite so ambitious; short stories to begin with and then special articles for the newspapers--anything that promised to bring in a little money, but nothing ever did."
"Then, I presume, you're familiar with typewriters?"