Is there
anything I can do for you?"
She looked at him again--a keen look which seemed to get into Roland's
soul and walk about it with a searchlight. Then, as if satisfied by the
inspection, she spoke.
"No, I don't think there is," she said. "Unless you happen to be the
proprietor of a weekly paper with a Woman's Page, and need an editress
for it."
"I don't understand."
"Well, that's all any one could do for me--give me back my work or give
me something else of the same sort."
"Oh, have you lost your job?"
"I have. So would you mind going away, because I want to go on crying,
and I do it better alone. You won't mind my turning you out, I hope,
but I was here first, and there are heaps of other benches."
"No, but wait a minute. I want to hear about this. I might be able--what
I mean is--think of something. Tell me all about it."
There is no doubt that the possession of two hundred and fifty thousand
pounds tones down a diffident man's diffidence. Roland began to feel
almost masterful.
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"There's something in that," said the girl reflectively.
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