BUT I did write to you, Goldie—once more, anyway—letter was returned to me after being forwarded all over New York,” said Walter, striding about her flat.

“And then you forgot me completely.”

“No, I didn’t—but what if I had? You simply aren’t the same girl I liked—you’re a woman that can do things; and, honestly, you’re an inspiration to me.” Walter rubbed his jaw in the nervous way she remembered.

“Well, I hope I shall inspire you to stick to the White Line and make good.”

“Nope, I’m going to make one more change. Gee! I can’t go on working for you. The problem of any man working for a woman boss is hard enough. He’s always wanting to give her advice and be superior, and yet he has to take her orders. And it’s twice as hard when it’s me working for you that I remember as a kid—even though you have climbed past me.”

“Well?”

“Well, I’m going to work for you till I have a job where I can make good, and when I do—or if I do—I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

“But, my dear boy, I’m a business woman. I’m making good right now. In three months I’ve boosted White Line receipts seventeen per cent., and I’m not going back to minding the cat and the gas-stove and waiting—”

“You don’t need to. We can both work, keep our jobs, and have a real housekeeper—a crackajack maid at forty a month—to mind the cat.”

“But you seem to forget that I’m more or less married already.”

“So do you!... If I make good— Listen: I guess it’s time now to tell you my secret. I’m breaking into your old game, real estate. You know I’ve been turning out pretty good publicity for the White Line, besides all the traveling and inspecting, and we have managed to have a few good times, haven’t we? But, also, on the side, I’ve been doing a whale of a lot of advertising, and so on, for the Nassau County Investment Company, and they’ve offered me a steady job at forty-five a week. And now that I’ve got you to work for, my Wanderjahre are over. So, if I do make good, will you divorce that incubus of an Eddie Schwirtz and marry me? Will you?”

He perched on the arm of her chair, and again demanded: “Will you? You’ve got plenty legal grounds for divorcing him—and you haven’t any ethical grounds for not doing it.”

She said nothing. Her head drooped. She, who had blandly been his manager all day, felt managed when his “Will you?” pierced her, made her a woman.

He put his forefinger under her chin and lifted it. She was conscious of his restless, demanding eyes.

“Oh, I must think it over,” she begged.

“Then you will!” he triumphed. “Oh, my soul, we’ve bucked the world—you’ve won, and I will win. Mr. and Mrs. Babson will be won’erfully happy. They’ll be a terribly modern couple, both on the job, with a bungalow and a Ford and two Persian cats and a library of Wells, and Compton Mackenzie, and Anatole France. And everybody will think they’re exceptional, and not know they’re really two lonely kids that curl up close to each other for comfort.... And now I’m going home and do a couple miles publicity for the Nassau Company.... Oh, my dear, my dear—”

§ 2

“I will keep my job—if I’ve had this world of offices wished on to me, at least I’ll conquer it, and give my clerks a decent time,” the business woman meditated. “But just the same—oh, I am a woman, and I do need love. I want Walter, and I want his child, my own baby and his.”

THE END