“I'm not saying anything against the place.”
“What, then?”
“You asked me if I liked my work. I don't.”
“Then why do you do it?” he demanded.
“To live,” she replied.
He smiled, but his gesture as he stroked his moustache implied a slight annoyance at her composure. He found it difficult with this dark, self-contained young woman to sustain the role of benefactor.
“What kind of work would you like to do?” he demanded.
“I don't know. I haven't got the choice, anyway,” she said.
He observed that she did her work well, to which she made no answer. She refused to help him, although Miss Ottway must have warned her. She acted as though she were conferring the favour. And yet, clearing his throat, he was impelled to say:—“Miss Ottway's leaving me, she's going into the Boston office with Mr. Semple, the treasurer of the corporation. I shall miss her, she's an able and reliable woman, and she knows my ways.” He paused, fingering his paper knife. “The fact is, Miss Bumpus, she's spoken highly of you, she tells me you're quick and accurate and painstaking—I've noticed that for myself. She seems to think you could do her work, and recommends that I give you a trial. You understand, of course, that the position is in a way confidential, and that you could not expect at first, at any rate, the salary Miss Ottway has had, but I'm willing to offer you fourteen dollars a week to begin with, and afterwards, if we get along together, to give you more. What do you say?”
“I'd like to try it, Mr. Ditmar,” Janet said, and added nothing, no word of gratitude or of appreciation to that consent.