work well. On the contrary, I think you'll soon be expert. But I thought
perhaps I might be able to help you to something you'd like better."

He listened to his own words in astonishment. What new freak of madness
was this? Instead of clearing himself of this uncanny girl, he was
proposing things to her that would mean closer relations. And what
reason had he to think she was fitted for anything but just what she was
now doing--doing indifferently well?

"Thank you," she said, so quietly that it seemed coldly, "but I'm
satisfied as I am."

Her manner seemed to say with polite and restrained plainness that she
was not in the least appreciative of his interest or of himself. But
this could not be. No girl in her position could fail to be grateful for
his interest. No woman, in all his life, had ever failed to respond to
his slightest advance. No, it simply could not be. She was merely shy,
and had a peculiar way of showing it. He said:

"You have no ambition?"

"That's not for a woman."

She was making her replies as brief as civility permitted. He observed
her narrowly. She was not shy, not embarrassed. What kind of game was
this? It could not be in sincere nature for a person in her position
thus to treat overtures, friendly and courteous overtures, from one in
his position. And never before--never--had a woman been thus
unresponsive. Instead of feeling relief that she had disentangled him
from the plight into which his impulsive offer had flung him, he was