“No, sir! Too certain that you’d fare worse!” declared Rodney promptly. “You’re not going an inch out of Beaconhite, that’s flat! I can put you into something; poor enough, but enough to hold on by till you find what you want. Open up, Cicely; read your offer of $10,000 a year!”
Cis “opened up,” slitting the end of the envelope with the point of her bar pin, prolonging the operation in a way unlike herself.
The communication which she unfolded was brief, compactly typed in the middle of a large page. It read:
Miss Cicely Adair,
The Beacon Head, Beaconhite.
Dear Miss Adair:—
I am prepared to offer you a position in my personal service, as my secretary. Your duties I vaguely outlined to you when you called upon me. Your salary would be, to begin, $42.00 per week, or $7.00 per day. If you prove competent, still more, if you prove satisfactory in the ways more important than mere skill, of which I spoke to you, your salary will soon exceed this sum. If this offer is acceptable to you, kindly report for duty on Monday next, at my office, at nine-thirty in the morning.
Yours truly,
Wilmer Lucas.
“Great little old snarled up signature!” commented Rodney, whom Cicely had permitted to read the letter with her. “Wouldn’t be easy to forge! Not a bad salary, my Holly friend, and the increase will be swift, or else you won’t stay. Not bad. We’ll have a supper after the private theatricals, to celebrate; just we two!”
“Let me off from the theatricals, please, will you, Rodney?” asked Cis. “I’ve been sorry I said I’d go, anyway; it’ll be kind of a cross between a place where you’ve a right to go, and a place where you’re intruding. I know ’em; they’re always like that! All the friends and relations of the performers are there—like a funeral!—and they talk across to one another, and look at a person as if they wondered how on earth you broke in—selling tickets for a charity doesn’t calm ’em. But what’s more, I ought not to go anywhere to-night, except to boarding houses. I’ve got to find a place to live, if I’m going to stay in Beaconhite; can’t stand $5.00 a day at this hotel, wouldn’t leave much for—well, for having my shoes polished, for instance!” She stopped to enjoy her own allusion with the liquid gurgle of laughter that did not pass her throat, for which Rodney Moore had already learned to wait with anticipation.
“But it is a nice salary to begin on, isn’t it? I knew Friday was my lucky day! Found a jolly pal who suits me fine, and got my job! Wonder if Christmas fell on Friday the year I was born?” Cis ended with another little suppressed laugh.
“What a girl! You don’t mind letting a chap know that you think he’s all right, and are glad that you found him, do you?” cried Rodney, puzzled but admiring, somewhat piqued, nevertheless; such frankness was prohibitive as well as welcoming.