“Why should my age, or lack of it, be a bar to my doing secretary work?” questioned Marjorie, looking in puzzled surprise at her hostess. “I write a fair hand, I am a moderately good stenographer and typewriter, and if you need a social secretary....”
“But I don’t require a secretary,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “I want an official chaperon for my daughter, Janet.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation escaped Marjorie unwittingly, and she flushed slightly, fearing the older woman might be displeased by her open astonishment. But Mrs. Fordyce, teacup poised in air, sat gazing intently at her, oblivious of her confusion. Apparently what she saw pleased her, for she came to a sudden resolution.
“I am going to make you a proposition,” she began, and Marjorie’s hopes rose. “My infirmity prevents my accepting formal invitations, so I cannot accompany my daughter to entertainments. I do not want Janet to go alone, nor do I wish her to be dependent on the kindness of friends to see that she has a good time. I expected to find you older; however, on second’s thought, that doesn’t matter so much. Janet would far rather have a companion than a stately dowager as chaperon. Will you accept the position?”
“What will be my—my duties?” stammered Marjorie, somewhat overwhelmed at the task offered her.
“To accompany Janet to dances, the theater, and call with her, and preside at any entertainments we may give for her. See that she meets the right people, and wears the proper clothes,” wound up Mrs. Fordyce. “Your salary will be a hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fordyce, that’s entirely too much,” protested Marjorie, aghast.
“You will earn it,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “The demands on your time will be very great. Come to think of it, I believe you had better spend the winter here with us.”
“Here? In this house?” Marjorie’s eyes grew big with wonder. “I—I don’t believe I could leave Aunt Yvonett——” she stopped abruptly. After all her aunt would not be alone; Cousin Rebekah Graves would take most watchful care of her; she would not be greatly missed at the little house in Thirteenth Street, in fact, it would mean one mouth less to feed. With such a salary, she could turn over fully a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month to her aunt; the money would be sorely needed now that the bank’s failure had carried away Madame Yvonett’s small hoard.
If she accepted Mrs. Fordyce’s offer, her lines would fall in pleasant places. Marjorie glanced with increasing satisfaction about the large, well-proportioned room with its costly hangings, handsome furniture, and rare bric-a-brac. She was a bit of a Sybarite, and the beautiful things, the outward and visible signs of wealth about her, satisfied that craving. To go to dances, theaters, and dinners—what more could a girl want?