"Very well. There is a whole raft of copying in that drawer to be done. You will find a dressing-room on that side."
Leonie Cuyler did not wait to be told a second time. With a bow in Lynde's direction, she withdrew, laying her hat and a soft lace scarf, that had been wrapped about her neck, upon a table.
She glanced carelessly into the small mirror, endeavoring to smooth down the rebellious curls that were one of her chief attractions.
For a single moment she stood gazing idly about her, a dreamy smile upon her lips, then shaking herself together with a little impatient jerk, she walked into the room where Lynde Pyne awaited her.
With almost tender care he showed her the position of his papers, explained to her what would be expected of her, then sat down, watching the graceful movements of her fingers as they flew lightly over the key-board.
He felt dizzy, as though from drinking wine, when the evening came and he saw that he must let her go.
He watched her from the room, then put on his own hat with a weary sigh.
"I am afraid I have not done a wise thing to bring Leonie Cuyler here," he muttered, "and yet what can it matter?"
There was something half bitter, wholly defiant in his mental question, and he walked from the office with anything but a pleasant expression upon his handsome face.
And Leonie?