“Because you're you—because you're different from any woman I ever met. You don't understand what you are—you don't see yourself.”
“I made up my mind last night I wouldn't stay in your office any longer,” she informed him.
“For God's sake, why?” he exclaimed. “I've been afraid of that. Don't go—I don't know what I'd do. I'll be careful—I won't get you talked about.”
“Talked about!” She tore herself away from him. “Why should you get me talked about?” she cried.
He was frightened. “No, no,” he stammered, “I didn't mean—”
“What did you mean?”
“Well—as you say, you're my stenographer, but that's no reason why we shouldn't be friends. I only meant—I wouldn't do anything to make our friendship the subject of gossip.”
Suddenly she began to find a certain amusement in his confusion and penitence, she achieved a pleasurable sense of advantage, of power over him.
“Why should you want me? I don't know anything, I've never had any advantages—and you have so much. I read an article in the newspaper about you today—Mr. Caldwell gave it to me—”
“Did you like it?” he interrupted, naively.