"Have you ever been anybody's secretary?" I continued.
"Never," said Miggy. "I never saw anybody before that had a secretary."
"But something must have made her think you would do," I suggested. "And what made you think so?"
"Well," Miggy said, "she thinks so because she wants me to get ahead. And I think so because I generally think I can do anything—except mathematics. Has Secretary got any mathematics about it?"
"Not my secretary work," I told her, reviewing these extraordinary qualifications for duty; "except counting the words on a page. You could do that?"
"Oh, that!" said Miggy. "But if you told me to multiply two fractions you'd never see me again, no matter how much I wanted to come back. Calliope Marsh says she's always expecting to find some folks' heads caved in on one side—same as red and blue balloons. If mine caved, it'd be on the mathematics corner."
I assured her that I never have a fraction in my house.
"Then I'll come," said Miggy, simply.
But immediately she leaned forward with a look of anxiety, and her face was pointed and big-eyed, so that distress became a part of it.
"Oh," she said, "I forgot. I meant to tell you first."