He returned to his idle dreaming, but was aroused again at the expiration of a moment.
"I came to see about the position you advertised, sir," a cool, refined voice said.
He arose and offered her a chair, looking at her in his own irresistible fashion.
And what he saw he never forgot!
The face was as flawless as his own. The short, curling, red-brown hair, that looked as though the sun had become entangled in a shadow, the violet eyes, the graceful sweep of the perfect chin, the exquisitely fitting gown of cheap gray tricot, all appealed to him with irresistible force.
"What machine do you operate? and what is your record for speed?" he asked, scarcely conscious that he had spoken at all.
"I use the Hammond mostly, and can write seventy words to the minute, provided they are not too long."
"You can write from dictation?"
"Yes, sir. I am a stenographer and typewriter. My last position I lost through the death of Mr. Carl Lefevre, my employer."
"Then you are Miss Cuyler?"