Eric wondered how quickly he could finish his cigar without spoiling it, then settled resignedly in his chair and listened with eyes half-closed. Miss Maitland had worked for Sir Matthew Woodstock in London, New York, Paris, Rome and Petrograd, crowding into two years more excitement and experiences than she had dreamed of knowing in a life-time. She was nineteen and looking for new worlds to explore, but, as with Alexander on the confines of India, the army insisted on returning home: and there, Sir Matthew told her with regret, he had his own trained staff, and there would be no work for her.
“What are you going to do when you get back to England?,” asked Eric in the first negotiable pause.
“Get hold of a new job before father has time to see that the war’s over,” she answered promptly. “There’ll be a row, of course, when he finds out... D’you employ a secretary in England, Mr. Lane?”
“I used to.”
“And you will again. Will you take me? Sir Matthew will tell you that I’m a first-rate shorthand-typist, I’m fairly well-educated, I’m intelligent, I hope I’ve got a certain amount of tact. I’ll tell you that I’m honest—honest in the sense that, when I take money from a person, I work my fingers to the bones for him.”
Eric smiled and shook his head.
“It wouldn’t be very practicable,” he said.
“Why not? I’ll come to you for a month without salary! Three months! I can’t afford more than that.”
Underneath her eagerness Eric fancied that he could detect something more than restless impetuosity.
“My dear Miss Maitland, you must think me very sordid,” he laughed.