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She was silent。
〃Now； do you understand？〃
〃I understand what you said。〃 She looked at him as she spoke。 He wondered how he could have fancied those lack…luster eyes beautiful or capable of expression。
〃You don't believe it？〃 he asked。
〃No；〃 said she。 And suddenly in those eyes； gazing now into space； there came the unutterably melancholy lookheavy…lidded from heartache； weary…wise from long； long and bitter； experiences。 Yet she still looked younggirlishly youngbut it was the youthful look the classic Greek sculptors tried to give their young goddessesthe youth without beginning or end younger than a baby's； older than the oldest of the sons of men。 He mocked himself for the fancies this queer creature inspired in him； but she none the less made him uneasy。
〃You don't believe it？〃 he repeated。
〃No；〃 she answered again。 〃My father has taught mesome things。〃
He drummed impatiently on the table。 He resented her impertinencefor； like all men of clear and positive ｛？｝ mind； he regarded contradiction as in one ｛？｝ pudent； in another aspect evidence of the fol｛？｝ contradictor。 Then he gave a short laughthe ｛？｝ ing laugh of the clever man who has tried to believe his own sophistries and has failed。 〃Wellneither do I believe it；〃 said he。 〃Now； to get the thing typewritten。〃
She seated herself at the machine and set to work。 As his mind was full of the agreement he could not concentrate on anything else。 From time to time he glanced at her。 Then he gave up trying to work and sat furtively observing her。 What a quaint little mystery it was！ There was in itthat is； in her not the least charm for him。 But； in all his experience with women； he could recall no woman with a comparable development of this curious quality of multiple personalities； showing and vanishing in swift succession。
There had been a time when woman had interested him as a puzzle to be worked out； a maze to be explored； a temple to be penetrateduntil one reached the place where the priests manipulated the machinery for the wonders and miracles to fool the devotees into awe。 Some men never get to this stage； never realize that their own passions； working upon the universal human love of the mysterious； are wholly responsible for the cult of woman the sphynx and the sibyl。 But Norman； beloved of women； had been let by them into their ultimate secretthe simple humanness of woman； the ｛？｝ry of the oracles； miracles； and wonders。 He ｛？｝red that her 〃divine intuitions〃 were mere ｛？｝ guesses； where they had any meaning at all； that her eloquent silences were screens for ignorance or boredomand so on through the list of legends that prop the feminist cult。
But this girlthis Miss Hallowellhere was a tangible mysterya mystery of physics； of chemistry。 He sat watching herwatching the changes as she bent to her work； or relaxed； or puzzled over the meaning of one of her own hesitating stenographic hieroglyphics watched her as the waning light of the afternoon varied its intensity upon her skin。 Why； her very hair partook of this magical quality and altered its tint； its degree of vitality even； in harmony with the other changes。 。 。 。 What was the explanation？ By means of what rare mechanism did her nerve force ebb and flow from moment to moment； bringing about these fascinating surface changes in her body？ Could anything； even any skin； be better made than that superb skin of hers that master work of delicacy and strength； of smoothness and color？ How had it been possible for him to fail to notice it； when he was always looking for signs of a good skin down townand up town； tooin these days of the ravages of pastry and candy？ 。 。 。 What long graceful fingers she hadyet what small hands！ Certainly here was a peculiarity that persisted。 No absurd though it seemed； no！ One way he looked at those hands； they were broad and strong； another way narrow and gracefully weak。
He said to himself： 〃The man who gets that girl will have Solomon's wives rolled into one。 A harem at the price of a wifeor a〃 He left the thought unfinished。 It seemed an insult to this helpless little creature； the more rather than the less cowardly for being unspoken； for； no doubt her ideas of propriety were firmly conventional。
〃About done？〃 he asked impatiently。
She glanced up。 〃In a moment。 I'm sorry to be so slow。〃
〃You're not；〃 he assured her truthfully。 〃It's my impatience。 Let me see the pages you've finished。〃
With them he was able to concentrate his mind。 When she laid the last page beside his arm he was absorbed； did not look at her； did not think of her。 〃Take the machine away；〃 said he abruptly。
He was leaving for the day when he remembered her again。 He sent for her。 〃I forgot to thank you。 It was good work。 You will do well。 All you need is practiceand confidence。 Especially confidence。〃 He looked at her。 She seemed frailtouchingly frail。 〃You are not strong？〃
She smiled； and in an instant the frailty seemed to have been mere delicacy of buildthe delicacy that goes with the strength of steel wires； or rather of the spider's weaving thread which sustains weights and shocks out of all proportion to its appearance。 〃I've never been ill in my life；〃 said she。 〃Not a day。〃
Again； because she was standing before him in full view； he noted the peculiar construction of her frame the beautiful lines of length so dextrously combined that her figure as a whole was not tall。 He said； 〃A working womanor manneeds health above all。 Thank you again。〃 And he nodded a somewhat curt dismissal。 When she glided away and he was alone behind the closed door； he reflected for a moment upon the extraordinary amount of thinkingand the extraordinary kind of thinkinginto which this poor little typewriter girl had beguiled him。 He soon found the explanation for this vagary into a realm so foreign to a man of his high tastes and ambitions。 〃It's because I'm so in love with Josephine；〃 he decided。 〃I've fallen into the sentimental state of all lovers。 The whole sex becomes novel and interesting and worth while。〃
As he left the office； unusually late； he saw her still at workno doubt doing over again some bungled piece of copying。 She had her normal and natural look and airthe atomic little typewriter； unattractive and uninteresting。 With another smile for his romantic imaginings； he forgot her。 But when he reached the street he remembered her again。 The threatened blizzard had changed into a heavy rain。 The swift and sudden currents of air； that have made of New York a cave of the winds since the coming of the skyscrapers； were darting round corners； turning umbrellas inside out； tossing women's skirts about their heads； reducing all who were abroad to the same level of drenched and sullen wretched… ness。 Norman's limousine was waiting at the curb。 He； pausing in the doorway； glanced up and down the street； had an impulse to return and take the girl home。 Then he smiled satirically at himself。 Her lot condemned her to be out in all weathers。 It would not be a kindness but an exhibition of smug vanity to shelter her this one night； also； there was the question of her reputationand the possibility of turning her head； perhaps just enough to cause her ruin。 He sprang across the wind…swept； rain…swept sidewalk and into the limousine whose door was being held open by an obsequious attendant。 〃Home；〃 he said； and the door slammed。
Usually these journeys between office and home or club in the evening gave Norman a chance for ten or fifteen minutes of sleep。 He had discovered that this brief dropping of the thread of consciousness gave him a wonderful fresh grip upon the day； enabled him to work or play until late into the night without fatigue。 But that evening his mind was wide awake。 Nor could he fix it upon business。 It would interest itself only in the hurrying throngs of foot passengers and the ideas they suggested： Here am Iso ran his thoughtshere am I； tucked away comfortably while all those poor creatures have to plod along in the storm。 I could afford to be sick。 They can't。 And what have I done to deserve this good fortune？ Nothing。 Worse than nothing。 If I had made my career along the lines of what is honest and right and beneficial to my fellow men； I'd probably be plugging home under an umbrella and to a pretty poor excuse for a home。 But I was too wise to do that。 I've spent this day； as I spend all my days； in helping the powerful rich to add to their wealth and power； to add to the burdens those poor devils out there in the rain must bear。 And I'm rewarded with a limousine； and all the rest of it。
These thoughts neither came from nor produced a mood of penitence； or of regret even。 Norman was simply indulging in his favorite pastimefollowing without prejudice the leading of a chain of pure logic。 He despised self…deceivers。 He always kept himself free from prejudice and all its wiles。 He took life as he found it； but he did not excuse it and himself with the familiar hypocrisies that make the comfortable classes preen themselves on being the guardians and saviours of the ignorant； incapable masses。 When old Lockyer said one day that this was the function of the 〃upper classes；〃 Norman retorted：