“Miss Thorstad,” he said, “I think—er—that it will be best for you to sever your connection with this office.”
His tone, wholly disapproving, weighted with meaning, told his reasons with almost comic flatness.
Freda’s brow contracted and she looked sharply at him. Then she laughed. A brazen laugh, he would have said. Truly a laugh with no more fear or care or apprehension in it than the laugh of any child who comes upon something ridiculous.
Mr. Sable frowned. She was a hussy, he thought. Might try to bulldoze him a little—he became increasingly stern.
“I have no desire to go into our reasons for this but I think it will be best for you to simply leave at once. You may find the work too heavy for you. I am sure you understand that no office of this kind could take the situation differently.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for me to wait until Mr. Flandon’s return?” she asked.
He had feared that.
“Surely you understand that your presence here is embarrassing to Mr. Flandon,” he said sharply.
If she had guessed what he suspected she might have contended. But all that he said struck her as true. She evidently was being gossiped about and if it did make it embarrassing for Mr. Flandon—Perhaps that was why he had been so over courteous, to conceal a deep embarrassment.
“Very well, Mr. Sable,”—she straightened her shoulders a little—“I shall not go on with my work here.”