“Exactly.” With victory so easily accomplished, Mr. Sable became different, adept at smoothing things over. “Of course when a young lady cannot typewrite, an office like this has hardly the right kind of work—”
“I know that. I told Mr. Flandon that at the start.”
“Mr. Flandon being absent, I will give you a check for this week’s work.”
“I’ve done only one day’s work, Mr. Sable. It is only”—she calculated—“two and a half dollars.”
She took his check for that—he did not dare press the point—and left his office. Mr. Sable smoothed his little white mustache, straightened his papers with the air of having done a good day’s work already, and pressed the buzzer for his own secretary.
It was only half past nine o’clock. Freda got her hat and coat from the tiny dressing-room. Her desk was in order and there was no use in fussing over it. She wanted to get out into the clean air. The pompous little lawyer’s insinuations while they did not strike deep enough to insult her, made her feel soiled and dirty.
Cele followed her into the dressing-room.
“Where you going?”
“Going out to look for a job.”
“He let you out?”