"Are
you--what are you doing, Joe, making out reports?"
With much care Joe transcribed it upon the virgin sheet before him;
with a painful precision that brought the tip of his tongue beyond one
corner of his lips, he rounded out the letters to his complete
satisfaction.
"No," his answer was mumbled in his abstraction. "No, I ain't writing
a report. I'm--I'm just beginning my novel."
Steve heard Garry gasp; he saw a gleam of pleased anticipation flash
into his eyes, and knew instantly at what degree of friendship those
two had already arrived.
"Will you--will you please say that again, Joe?" Garry begged him, very
earnestly. "I wasn't paying attention. I'm afraid I was thinking of
something else too hard to hear you correctly."
Joe's smile as he looked up had in it all of that quality which at
times made it almost seraphic. His answer seemed irrelevant at first.
"I wonder if you know that Cecile person who works down to that big
plaster house at Morrison--Allison's place on the hill?" he inquired.
"Dexter Allison's?" Garry thought a moment. "Why, you must mean Miss
Allison's little French maid, don't you, Joe? Yes, I know who she is,
if she's the one. But what has she to do with it?"
Joe laid down his pencil and set himself to be frankly explanatory.
"Well, it's like this," he stated. "She and I, now--we've got more or
less acquainted in the last week or two, so to speak.
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