"Why, Miss Ascough, I brought this to you as a friend of Mrs. Martin."
I said:
"Yes, that's why I did not charge for the carbons, and made you just a half-rate."
"There seems to be some mistake," he replied. "I understood from Mrs. Martin that you would do this work just as if it were for her."
"Do you mean," I said, "for nothing?"
He made a gesture with his hands, as much as to say, "Don't put it so baldly."
I stared at him. I could not believe that any one would be mean enough to let me do all that work for nothing. He was a greatly admired author. His play seemed, in my youthful judgment, a fine thing, and yet was it possible that he would impose upon a poor working-girl? Could he really believe that I, who was being paid only seven dollars a week for my morning services, would have worked afternoons and evenings to type-write his play without charge?
He put his play in a large envelop, and then he said:
"I appreciate very much what you have done, and I am pleased with your work. I shall make a point of recommending you to friends of mine." He cleared his throat. "I've also brought you a little present in token of my appreciation." He took from his coat pocket a book, one of his own. "It's autographed," he said, smiling, and gave it to me.
I held his book with a thumb and forefinger, as if it were something unclean, and then I deliberately dropped it into the waste-paper-basket.