“Are you being ironical?”
“Not a bit. I’ll speak to Miss Champion. She’s not a bad sort, so long as you are tweety-tweety and never cause any complications.”
“I wish you would speak to her.”
“I will.”
Kate Duveen had peculiar influence with Miss Champion, perhaps because she was not afraid of her. Miss Champion thought her a very sound and reliable young woman, a young woman whose health and strength seemed phenomenal, and who never caused any friction by going down with influenza, and so falling into arrears with her work. Kate Duveen had made herself a very passable linguist. She could draw, type, scribble shorthand, do book-keeping, write a good magazine article or edit the ladies’ page of a paper. Every year she spent her three weeks’ holiday abroad, and had seen a good deal of Germany, Italy and France. Miss Champion always said that Kate Duveen had succeeded in doing a very difficult thing—combining versatility with efficiency.
“So Miss Carfax would like a secretaryship? I suppose you think her suitable?”
“There is not a safer girl in London.”
“I understand you. Because she has looks.”
“I think you can ignore them. She is very keen to get on.”
“Very well. I will look out for something to suit her.”