how you step over that telephone wire. Ah!"
She did catch her feet in the flex, and he sprang to her assistance.
"Upsy, daisy, dear old--young miss, I mean."
It was a breathless welcome. She herself was startled by the warmth of it; he, for his part, saw nothing but grey eyes and a perfect mouth, sensed nothing but a delicate fragrance of a godlike presence.
"I have come to see you----" she began.
"Jolly good of you," said Bones enthusiastically. "You've no idea how fearsomely lonely I get sometimes. I often say to people: 'Look me up, dear old thing, any time between ten and twelve or two and four; don't stand on ceremony----'"
"I've come to see you----" she began again.
"You're a kind young miss," murmured Bones, and she laughed.
"You're not used to having girls in this office, are you?"
"You're the first," said Bones, with a dramatic flourish, "that ever burst tiddly-um-te-um!"
To be mistaken for a welcome visitor--she was that, did she but guess it--added to her natural embarrassment.
"Well," she said desperately, "I've come for work."
He stared at her, refixing his monocle.
"You've come for work my dear old--my jolly old--young miss?"
"I've come for work," she nodded.
Bones's face was very grave.
"You've come for work." He thought a moment; then: "What work? Of course," he added in a flurry, "there's plenty of work to do! Believe me, you don't know the amount I get through in this sanctum--that's Latin for 'private office'--and the wretched old place is never tidy--never! I am seriously thinking"--he frowned--"yes, I am very seriously thinking of sacking the lady who does the dusting. Why, do you know, this morning----"
Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones's unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes sophisticated, superhumanly lovely.
"I haven't come for a dusting job," she laughed.
"Of course you haven't," said Bones in a panic. "My dear old lady--my precious--my young person, I should have said--of course you haven't! You've come for a job--you've come to work! Well, you shall have it! Start right away!"
She stared.
"What shall I do?" she asked.
"What would I like you to do?" said Bones slowly. "What about scheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright----" He trailed off feebly as she shook her head.
"Do you want a secretary?" she asked, and Bones's enthusiasm rose to the squeaking point.
"The very thing! I advertised in this morning's _Times_. You saw the advertisement?"
"You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyes that danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in _The Times_ this morning, and I am quite sure that you did not advertise."
"I meant to advertise," said Bones gently. "I had the idea last night; that's the very piece of paper I was writing the advertisement on."
He pointed to a sheet upon the pad.
"A secretary? The very thing! Let me think."
He supported his chin upon one hand, his elbow upon another.
"You will want paper, pens, and ink--we have all those," he said. "There is a large supply in that cupboard. Also india-rubber. I am not sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And a ruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort of thing."
"And a typewriter?" she suggested.
Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.
"A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Ali yesterday: 'You silly old ass----'"
"Oh, you have a girl?" she said disappointedly.
"Ali," said Bones, "is the name of a native man person who is devoted to me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family for years," he explained.
"Oh, it's a man," she said.
Bones nodded.
"Ali. Spelt A-l-y; it's Arabic."
"A native?"
Bones nodded.
"Of course he will not be in your way," ha hastened to explain. "He is in Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "and then he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don't you?"
She laughed again. This was the most amazing of all possible employers.
"Of course," Bones went on, "I snore a bit myself. All thinkers do--I mean all brainy people. Not being a jolly old snorer yourself----"
"Thank you," said the girl.
Other tenants or the satellites of other tenants who occupied the palatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, some few minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairs three at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those same stairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chair in the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at the urgency of his movements.
"I want to tell you," said the girl, "that I know very little about shorthand."
"Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear--my jolly old stenographer," said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shall always object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to write shorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Another thing----"
"One moment, Mr. Tibbetts," she said. "I don't know a great deal about typewriting, either."
Bones beamed.
"There I can help you," he said. "Of course it isn't necessary that you should know anything about typewriting. But I can give you a few hints," he said. "This thing, when you jiggle it up and down, makes the thingummy-bob run along. Every time you hit one of these letters---- I'll show you.... Now, suppose I am writing 'Dear Sir,' I start with a 'D.' Now, where's that jolly old 'D'?" He scowled at the keyboard, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. "I thought so," he said; "there ain't a 'D.' I had an idea that that wicked old----"
"Here's the 'D,'" she pointed out.
Bones spent a strenuous but wholly delightful morning and afternoon. He was half-way home to his chambers in Curzon Street before he realized that he had not fixed the rather important
