“Oh, this is different.”
“How?”
“I'm interested, the mill means something to me now you see, I'm not just copying things I don't know anything about.”
“I'm glad you're interested,” he said, in the same odd, awkward tone. “I've never had any one in the office who did my work as well. Now Miss Ottway was a good stenographer, she was capable, and a fine woman, but she never got the idea, the spirit of the mill in her as you've got it, and she wasn't able to save me trouble, as you do. It's remarkable how you've come to understand, and in such a short time.”
Janet coloured. She did not look at him, but had risen and begun to straighten out the papers beside her.
“There are lots of other things I'd like to understand,” she said.
“What?” he demanded.
“Well—about the mill. I never thought much about it before, I always hated it,” she cried, dropping the papers and suddenly facing him. “It was just drudgery. But now I want to learn everything, all I can, I'd like to see the machinery.”
“I'll take you through myself—to-morrow,” he declared.
His evident agitation made her pause. They were alone, the outer office deserted, and the Ditmar she saw now, whom she had summoned up with ridiculous ease by virtue of that mysterious power within her, was no longer the agent of the Chippering Mill, a boy filled with enthusiasm by a business achievement, but a man, the incarnation and expression of masculine desire desire for her. She knew she could compel him, if she chose, to throw caution to the winds.