and good nature; and not even a white-lead drummer or a fur importer had ever dared to cross the dead line of good behaviour in her presence. The entire force of the Acropolis, from the owner, who lived in Vienna, down to the head porter, who had been bedridden for sixteen years, would have sprung to her defence in a moment.
One day I walked past Miss Bates’s little sanctum Remingtorium, and saw in her place a black-haired unit—unmistakably a person—pounding with each of her forefingers upon the keys. Musing on the mutability of temporal affairs, I passed on. The next day I went on a two weeks’ vacation. Returning, I strolled through the lobby of the Acropolis, and saw, with a little warm glow of auld lang syne, Miss Bates, as Grecian and kind and flawless as ever, just putting the cover on her machine. The hour for closing had come; but she asked me in to sit for a few minutes in the dictation chair. Miss Bates explained her absence from and return to the Acropolis Hotel in words identical with or similar to these following:
“Well, Man, how are the stories coming?”
“Pretty regularly,” said I. “About equal to their going.”
“I’m sorry,” said she. “Good typewriting is the main thing in a story. You’ve missed me, have n’t you?”
“No one,” said I, “whom I have ever known knows as well as you do how to place properly belt buckles, semi-colons, hotel guests, and hairpins. But you’ve
