It was an excellent morning for a grouch, there being a drizzle outside, and Bill Marshall's grouch was carefully nursed by the owner. He had breakfasted alone, Aunt Caroline rarely taking that meal down-stairs. It would have been a comfort to have had Pete at breakfast, for Pete was entitled to the full benefit of the grouch; but a man cannot eat with his valet and preserve caste with the remaining servants in the house. Up-stairs again in his own rooms, Bill was railing at life, which now stretched before him as cheerless as a black void.

"Society! I'm ruined if it ever gets back to the gang."

"You'll get to like it," Pete assured him. "They all do."

"Oh, stop lying. Do I look like a Rollo?"

"But you'll change, Bill. You won't keep on being uncouth. Influence of environment, you know."

"Cut out the rot, Pete. Can't you take this thing seriously? I tell you, it's going to ruin me."

"And you so young," commented Pete. "Bill, I'll admit it looks tough just now. But what the deuce can you do about it? There's Aunt Caroline, you know."

A rumbling growl from Bill.

"She cuts quite a figure in your scheme of existence, Bill. You've got to play along with her, up to a certain point—or go to work. And what would you work at? They wouldn't start off by making you president of anything. I know that much about business myself."

"I'm not afraid to take a chance at work."

"Not you. But how about the fellow that gives out the jobs? And, besides, Aunt Caroline hasn't said anything about your going to work, as I understand it. She's got higher ideals right now."

"Pete, I tell you I'm not going to stand for this without a fight. I haven't promised anything yet."

Pete grinned.

"Maybe you didn't promise, but you marched off the field, and Aunt Caroline didn't. You went through all the motions of taking a beating. Bill, she hung the Indian sign on you right then. They never come back after the champ puts 'em away. I'll string a little bet on Aunt Caroline."

Bill growled again, seized the morning paper, essayed to read it, then flung it across the room.

"Never on the front page, Bill," said Pete. "They always print it opposite the editorial page."

"What?"

"The society news."

"Oh, go to blazes!" Bill's grouch was as virile as himself. "And see here, Pete. I'll beat this game yet. They can't put me into society without a secretary, can they? Well, you stand by and see how long any Willy-boy secretary holds a job with me. You keep time on it. The main part of his job will be his exit. And, believe me, he'll want to go."

Bill towered importantly in the center of the room.

"If he's my secretary he takes orders from me, doesn't he? And I have to have my daily exercise, don't I? Well, his first job every day is to put on the gloves for half an hour. After that he can open the mail, if he's able."

Pete smiled a tribute of admiration.

"It's good as far as it goes, Bill. Yes, you can lick a secretary. There isn't any doubt he'll take the air as soon as he comes to. But then you've got nothing between you and the old champ. And, as I said before, I'm stringing with Aunt Caroline."

Pete strolled to the window and observed the drizzling morning. Also, he observed something else—something that caused him to turn about with a show of genuine enthusiasm.

"Bill," he whispered loudly, "she's in again."

"Who?"

"Little Gray Eyes."

"Who?"

"Man dear, the girl. The mysterious lady. The one that took a liking to me. The one——"

Bill strode to the window.

"Oh, she's inside now," said Pete. "I heard the door closing. Bill, I must have made a hit."

He went over to the dresser, picked up Bill's brushes and began work on his hair.

"Pete, you can cut that out right now. You don't leave this room. Understand?"

"But maybe she's back to look at the ancestors again. She liked the way I talked about 'em, and——"

Bill pushed his valet violently into a chair.

"Pete, you've got to behave. I had trouble enough explaining about you yesterday. My Aunt Caroline's friends don't call here to see the servants—and you're a servant. Get me?"

"Don't be a snob, Bill."

"I'm not. But I'm your boss; that is, while you're in this house. If you don't like it, blame yourself. You invented this valet stuff. Now live up to it. Keep your own place or you'll have everything coming down in a grand smash."

Pete looked up at him sourly.

"Bill, you act jealous."

"Who? Me? Bull!"

"Bill, you are jealous."

"Don't be an ass. I don't even know the lady. She's nothing to me. But I intend to protect Aunt Caroline's guests——"

Bill was cut short by a knock and a message from a maid. Following its receipt, he walked over to the dresser and examined his scarf.

"Brush me off," he commanded.

"Go to the devil," remarked his valet. "And look here, Bill; play this square. Don't you go taking advantage of my position. Be a sport now. And if Gray Eyes——"

Bill was out of the room.

Down in the library he found Aunt Caroline—and the young woman with the gray eyes. The freckles were there, too; he saw them in a better light now and decided they were just the right shade of unobtrusiveness.

"William," said Aunt Caroline, "this is Miss Norcross."

Mary Wayne had arisen from her chair. It seemed to Bill that she lacked something of the poise that he had remarked on the afternoon before. There was uncertainty in her glance; an air of hesitation rather than of confidence was asserting itself. When he upset her chair in the reception-room she had rallied with discomforting assurance; now she betrayed timidity.

"Mighty glad to meet you," said Bill, with a large, amiable smile.

He found it necessary to reach for her hand, and when he had possessed himself of it he discovered that it was trembling.

She murmured something that he did not catch; evidently it was a mere formality. Bill regarded her with faint perplexity; she was behaving quite differently this morning. He wondered if it would be a good idea to say something about yesterday. Had she told Aunt Caroline? No; probably not. If she had, Aunt Caroline would certainly have chided him for working himself into a childish fury. Perhaps it would be embarrassing to mention the matter. He decided to let "Miss Norcross" take the initiative.

"Miss Norcross is ready to start this morning," explained Aunt Caroline.

Was she? thought Bill. Start what, or where?

"Too bad it should be raining," he observed. Then he could have chastised himself; it was such a futile commonplace. Pete would never have said anything so stupid.

"I think it will be more convenient for both of you to use the sun-parlor room on the second floor," said Aunt Caroline. "Here in the library there are so many interruptions."

"Er—yes; interruptions," said Bill.

Well, what interruptions? What was all this about, anyhow? From Aunt Caroline he turned to the girl. Evidently she did not think it was for her to explain; she avoided his glance.

"Oh, perhaps I forgot to explain, William." Aunt Caroline smiled at her own omission. "Miss Norcross is your secretary."

Bill started to whistle, but it died on his lips. Truth, out in the light at last, was overwhelming him. He looked again at his secretary; this time she did not avoid his eyes, but her expression puzzled him. As nearly as he could read it, there was a pleading there. As for Bill himself, he knew that his face was growing red. This girl—his secretary! All his hastily conceived plans were crashing. Aunt Caroline had spiked a gun.

"Miss Norcross has some remarkably fine references, William, and I see no reason why you should not get along very well," added Aunt Caroline.

"Ah—none whatever," he said clumsily.

"I think now you might show her the way up-stairs, William."

Without a word, Bill turned and led the way. He wondered if his ears were red, too, and if she could notice them from the back. He had a mad desire to run. He actually did start taking the stairs two at a time, then remembered and fell into a dignified pace.

A girl secretary! Oh, Aunt Caroline!

"How'll I get rid of her?" thought Bill. "I can't beat her up. I can't swear at her. And why does she have to be a secretary, anyhow? It isn't a square deal. If this ever gets out—oh, boy!"

Mary Wayne followed primly, although she was in a tumultuous state of mind. Of course she had had a night to dwell upon it, but now that she was really entering upon the adventure it seemed more formidable than ever. What an amazingly large person he was; it seemed contradictory, somehow, that a brilliant society man, such as described by Aunt Caroline, should run so aggressively to bulk. And he seemed embarrassed; he was not at all like the man who kicked her chair across the room.

Bill, with the air of a man about to face a firing squad, moved grimly along the upper hall in the direction of the sun-parlor room. There was nothing heroic in his bearing; rather, there was the resignation of despair. And then something happened to awaken him.

Pete Stearns, coming down from the third floor, spotted him.

"Say, listen——"

Then Pete spotted the girl and the sentence froze. He stood with his mouth agape, staring at the procession.

Bill jerked his head higher and set his shoulders. Pete Stearns wouldn't get any satisfaction out of this, if he knew it. He eyed his valet coldly.

"Don't forget to sponge and press those suits, and hurry up about it," he ordered roughly. "When you've done that I may have some errands for you. Look sharp."

He strode past Pete, and Mary Wayne followed. She did not even glance at the amazed valet. Pausing at a door, Bill opened it and held it wide.

"This way, if you please, Miss Norcross," he said, with a bow whose courtliness astonished himself.

She entered the sun-parlor room. Bill followed—and closed the door.

Out in the hall Pete Stearns was leaning against the wall.

"I'll be damned!" he whispered. "The lucky stiff."

Beyond the door Bill was facing Nemesis. She looked neither perilous nor forbidding; she was just a girl with a lot of nice points, so far as he could see. The encounter with Pete had braced him; perhaps it had even elevated him somewhat in her eyes. He felt the need of elevation; Aunt Caroline had managed to give him a sense of pampered unmanliness. Evidently the girl was waiting for him to begin.

"I guess you didn't tell Aunt Caroline how I booted you across the room last night," said Bill.

"No," she answered.

"That's good."

And he felt that it was good. This mutual reticence, so far as Aunt Caroline was concerned, tentatively served as a bond. He waved her gallantly to a chair, and she sat first on the edge of it; then, remembering that a social secretary should be a person of ease, she settled back.

"What has my aunt been telling you about me?" he demanded suddenly.

"Why—er—nothing. That is, she told me you wanted a social secretary."

"She did, eh? She said I wanted one?"

Mary hesitated for a second.

"Perhaps she did not put it exactly that way—Mr. Marshall. But of course I understand that you wanted one. I was engaged for that purpose."

"Did she tell you I was in society?"

"I don't remember that she did. But I took that for granted."

"Do I look as if I was in society?"

"I—I can't say." She found the young man somewhat disconcerting. "Aren't you?"

"No!" Bill thundered it.

"Oh!"

"I'm not in society, and I'm not going in. I wouldn't go into society if they closed up everything else."

Mary experienced a pang of dismay.

"Then I'm afraid there's some mistake," she faltered. "I'm sorry."

"Wait a minute," said Bill, drawing up a chair for himself and facing her. "Don't worry, now. Let's get this straightened out. I'll explain. My aunt wants me to go into society. I want to stay out. She's got a lot of ideas about keeping up the family reputation. I'd sooner go get a new one. So she hires a social secretary for me—and take it from me, Miss Norcross, I don't need a social secretary any more than I need crutches. I don't need any kind of a secretary."

Mary's heart was sinking. This was the end of her job; it had all been too good to be true. He must have read this thought in her eyes, for he continued hastily:

"Now, don't get scared. I'm trying to figure this thing out so it'll suit all hands. You see, this has sort of taken me by surprise. I wasn't expecting you as a secretary; I was expecting a man."

"Oh," said Mary faintly.

"And I was going to get rid of him—pronto. I had it all doped out. But——" Bill grinned—"I can't get rid of you that way."

Mary suddenly stiffened. She was not accustomed to having men get rid of her; she would get rid of herself. She arose from her chair.

Bill reached forth a long arm and calmly pushed her back into it. She flushed angrily. No matter how badly she needed work she did not intend to be treated as a child. But again he was employing that disarming grin.

"Easy now—please. I guess I'm rough, but I don't mean it that way. I suppose you need a job, don't you?"

Mary considered for an instant.

"Of course," she said, with a touch of dignity, "I should not have applied for a place I did not need."

"Sure; I get you. Listen, now: You can hold this job as long as you like; you can be social secretary or any other kind—only I'm not going into society."

"Will you please explain that?"

"It's easy. So long as my aunt thinks I'm going into society—fine. So long as I stay out of it—fine. I haven't any objections to having a secretary, on that basis."

Mary shook her head.

"That would be practicing a deception on your aunt," she said.

Oh, Mary!

But what Mary had in her mind was not the drawing of a fine distinction between one deception and another. She had not forgotten that already she was a deceiver. What troubled her was this: She liked Aunt Caroline. Thus far she had done that nice old lady no harm, even though she posed as Nell Norcross. But to take Aunt Caroline's money and give nothing in return was very different. That would be stealing. And, besides, she felt that the acceptance of Bill's idea would put her in an equivocal position toward him.

"But Aunt Caroline will never know," said Bill, who had no scruples on this point. "And you will be able to keep right on in your job."

Again Mary shook her head. She would have risen but for the fear that he would push her back into the chair a second time.

"I would be accepting charity," she declared firmly. "I do not need to do that."

Even her thought of the sick girl in the boarding-house did not prevent her from making this renunciation. Not even to supply Nell Norcross with a doctor, a nurse and medicine would she accept charity.

"I had better go down and explain the situation to Miss Marshall and then go," she added.

When she said that she did not realize how vulnerable was the spot in which she attacked him. Bill sensed the blow instantly.

"No, no!" he almost shouted. "You can't do that. You couldn't explain it to her in a million years."

Bill was worried. He did not know that young women were so difficult to please. He was worried about what Aunt Caroline would say. He knew that she was not only determined he should have a social secretary, but he divined that she wished him to have this particular secretary. More than that, on his own account, he was not yet ready to see the last of this young person. Still further, there was the desirable project of humiliating Pete Stearns in even greater degree.

"Then you may explain it to her," suggested Mary, clinging desperately to her remnant of conscience.

"I can't explain it any better than you can," groaned Bill. "I tried to, yesterday, and flivvered."

There was half a minute of silence, conversation having ended in a cul de sac. Both turned toward the door with a breath of relief when it opened softly, after a premonitory knock. Pete Stearns stood on the threshold.

He glanced not at all at Bill; his eyes were for Mary alone.

"Well?" demanded Bill.

"I thought, sir," said Pete, still watching Mary, "that unless you were in a hurry about your clothes——"

Bill cut him short with a gesture.

"I am in a hurry," he snapped, glaring at his valet. "What's more, I do not wish to be interrupted when I am busy with my secretary."

Pete's eyebrows went up nearly an inch. The news was staggering—but it solved a mystery. Unmistakable hints of a smile lurked on his lips. Then he bowed deeply—at Mary.

"Very good, sir," he said, and closed the door.

Bill turned again toward his secretary.

"Ultimately, I'm going to assassinate that valet," he said. "I'm only waiting in order to get my alibi perfected."

Mary found herself smiling.

"Now," said Bill, "let's talk business again. I think I know a way to straighten this out."