"If you'd just tell me what it is, I wouldn't bother you any more, and it might make all the difference to me," Annette was saying.
She saw him redden and shift sharply in his chair; an impulse of his ardent blood was spurring him to give her the work she needed, and then so to deal with his son that he would never dare lift his eyes to her. But the instinct of caution developed in business came to damp that dangerous warmth.
"Mademoiselle!" He returned her look gravely and honestly. "Upon my word, I can see nothing whatever wrong with you nothing whatever."
"Then," began Annette, "why won't you?"
He stopped her with an upraised hand. "I am going to tell you," he said. "There is a rule in this office, and behind the rule are good and sufficient reasons, that we do not take into our employ women who are still young and pretty."
She heard him with no change of her rigid countenance. She understood, of course; she had known in her time what it was to be persecuted. She would have liked to tell him that she was well able to take care of herself, but she recalled her promise not to bother him further.
She sighed, buttoning her glove. "It's a pity," she said unhappily, "because I really am a good typist."
"I am sure of it," he agreed. "I infinitely regret, but sa y est!"
She raised her head. "Well, thank you for telling me, at any rate," she said. "Good morning, monsieur."
"Good morning, mademoiselle," he replied, and held open the door for her to pass out.