Milly suspected that banking and bankers might get on a woman's nerves, too, though Walter Kemp was a much more human man than Clarence Albert ever would be.
"And now what will you do?" her friend inquired. (Milly had confided to her Horatio's coming disaster.)
"I don't know—something quick!"
"You might help me with my mail and buying—I never seem to get through with everything—and this New Hospital committee."
"Could I, do you think?" Milly responded eagerly.
So it was arranged that Milly should become a sort of informal lady secretary and assistant to the banker's wife, with unstated hours, duties, and compensation,—one of those flexible, vague business and social arrangements that women were more likely to make with one another twenty years ago than now.
Milly's spirits revived quickly, and she left the Kemps buoyant. It seemed easier than she had expected to "get something to do." She kissed Eleanor Kemp with genuine gratitude.
"You've always been the kindest, dearest thing to me, Nelly."
"I'm very fond of you, dear, and always shall be."
"I know—and you were my first real friend."