as it is,—and getting my clothes at a department store instead of having them sent out from London,—I'd be easy to fit, you see, even with hand-me-downs,—and in a lot of other ways. Besides, it would be a splendid idea for me to practise economy. I've never—"
"You dear old goose," broke in the Marchioness, delightedly; "do you think for an instant that I will allow you to pay the salary of my private secretary,—if I should conclude to employ one?"
"But you say you can't afford to employ one," he protested. "Besides, I shouldn't want her to be a real secretary. The work would be too hard and too confining. Old Bramble was my grandfather's secretary. He worked sixteen hours a day and never had a holiday. She must have plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise and—and time to read and do all sorts of agreeable things. I couldn't think of allowing her to learn how to use a typing machine, or to write shorthand, or to get pains in her back bending over a desk for hours at a time. That isn't my scheme, at all. She mustn't do any of those stupid things. Naturally, if you were to pay her out of your own pocket, you'd be justified in demanding a lot of hard, exacting work—"
"Just a moment, please. Let's be serious," said the Marchioness, pursing her lips.
"Suffering—" he began, staring at her in astonishment.
"I mean, let's seriously consider your scheme," she hastened to amend. "You are assuming, of course, that she will accept a position such as you suggest. Suppose she says no,—what then?"
