Ellen laughed. "He's not that kind of man at all! He's just as friendly as he can be."
For a moment her mother was anxious. "I hope, Ellen dear, he's not too friendly."
Ellen tossed her head. "Even if he was, I guess I know how to take care of myself!"
In Mrs. O'Brien confidence was restored. "Of course you do, Ellen dear. I trust you for that."
Terry looked at Ellen sharply. "Say, Sis, is this fellow married?"
"Er-a-not exactly," Ellen stammered. "I wasn't going to mention it, but since you ask me I might as well tell. They say he's divorced."
"Divorced!" That was a word to startle Mrs. O'Brien's soul. "You don't say so, Ellen! I'm sorry to hear it! I'm not so sure you ought to stay with him."
Ellen laughed. "Ma, you make me tired! Divorce is so common nowadays, it don't mean a thing! Besides, it wasn't his fault. Miss Kennedy, one of the other stenographers, told me so."
Mrs. O'Brien was plainly relieved. "I must say I'm glad to hear that. I suppose now she was one of them dressy, lazy, good-for-nuthin's that nearly drove the poor fella mad with her extravagance. There are such women and a lot of them!"
One of the first results of Ellen's new position was an utter indifference to George Riley and Rosie and to their little comedy. It was not so much that she intentionally ignored them as that she did not see them even when she looked at them—at any rate, did not see them any more than she would have seen two chairs that occupy so much space and are not to be stumbled over. There was one subject now and one only that filled her mind to the exclusion of all others. This was her new employer. She talked about him constantly, first as Mr. Hawes, then as Philip Hawes, and soon as Phil. It was "Phil this" and "Phil that" throughout breakfast and supper.