“I won’t go for a dollar, Stanton,” said Judy stoutly, and she dropped her head to its former resting place.
“If I paid my typewriter at the rate I pay you, Judy, she would think herself fortunate.”
“Have you a typewriter in your office, Stanton?” asked Judy, whose curiosity was aroused.
“Yes.”
“Does she write all your letters for you?”
“No; some of them only. I dictate to her and she takes down what I say in shorthand and then copies on her machine.”
“I should like a typewriter, Stanton. Will you get me one?”
“If you promise to learn to write on it.”
“I will; and Vivienne will help me, won’t you, my blackbird? And I will write for you this evening, Stanton,” graciously; “for on the whole, you are a satisfactory kind of man. Come Vivienne,” and getting up she extended a hand behind her.
“I wish to do some reading in my room,” said Vivienne, folding Judy’s fingers together and putting them from her.