In spite of the opportunity presented, a whole week passed by without a sign of the handsome young author. Judy’s suggestion that Irene might help in the office had been flatly ignored, but she was still hoping that Emily Grimshaw would change her mind. In the meantime Irene occupied herself with Dale Meredith’s books and Pauline’s piano.

Little by little Judy became accustomed to her employer’s eccentricities, and meeting unusual people was an everyday occurrence. Jasper Crosby, of all the people she met, was the only one who seemed to resent her presence in the office. He came in, bringing an old shoe box stuffed with more poetry by the author of Golden Girl. The box was poked full of tiny holes. Judy’s curiosity got the better of her and she asked the reason.

“So the verses can breathe, simpleton,” he replied. Then he turned to Emily Grimshaw, “What’s the idea of this upstart in your office? Getting old, eh? Work too much for you?”

“If you bring in any more of this stuff,” the agent retorted, “it will be too much for both of us. This girl is clever. She’s the only person I ever met who can revise your sister’s poetry as well as I can.”

Now Jasper Crosby’s hawk eyes were fixed on Judy. He studied her for a moment while she met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Huh!” he grunted. “Watch your step, now. It takes queer people to revise queer poetry, and, mind you, this stuff has got to sell. Bring it out in book form. Jazz it up! Make it popular, and the public will eat it. That so, cutie?” He gave Judy’s cheek a playful pinch as he turned to leave.

“The nerve of him!” she expostulated. “He’s the most repulsive person I have ever seen.”

“Quite so,” the agent agreed. “Quite so and, strange to say, his sister was once the most charming. You can see it yet in some of her verses. I would be more enthusiastic about this book of her collected poems if I had any assurance that the royalties would go to her.”

“Why won’t they?” Judy asked.

“Because he tells me that her health is failing. Years ago I was witness to her will, and the entire estate goes to that scoundrel, Jasper Crosby.”

As Judy busied herself typing and correcting the poetry this thought kept recurring to her mind. Nevertheless, the work itself fascinated her. She conceived the idea of grouping the verses with a sub-title for each group. Miss Grimshaw beamed her pleasure.

“A fine idea, Miss Bolton, a really constructive idea. It will take considerable time but don’t try to hurry. Better keep the manuscripts on your own desk and have the thing done right.”

“Could I take them home?” Judy ventured the question and immediately wished she had not asked it.

The agent’s eyes snapped. “Indeed not! Don’t you realize, young lady, that original manuscripts are sometimes very valuable? This poet is well known, and plenty of people would be glad to buy them or, what’s worse, steal them.”

Judy had not considered this. It had simply occurred to her that Irene might help arrange the poems. She liked to hear her read in her low, musical voice. She would make the poems live and catch hidden meanings between the lines. Judy tried to explain all this to her employer. She felt that she must excuse her own thoughtlessness.

“Well, if you are so anxious to have your friend help you, bring her here,” the old lady said with a sudden show of generosity.

Irene was thrilled when Judy told her.

“I feel as if this is a real occasion and I ought to dress up for it,” she declared. “A package came this morning from Farringdon, and I’ve been suspecting all the time that it’s a new dress. My birthday isn’t for another week, but do you think Dad would mind if I opened my present now?”

Without waiting for a reply, Irene ran to get the box her father had labeled, For My Little Girl’s Seventeenth Birthday. When she pulled off the wrappings the folds of a shimmering yellow satin dress fell into her hands. She stood up, holding it for Judy and Pauline to admire.

“Gorgeous!” Judy exclaimed. “Look at the puffed sleeves and high waistline! Why, it’s the very newest thing!”

“But it’s a party dress,” Pauline objected. “Really, it’s not at all the thing to wear in Emily Grimshaw’s office.”

“For once,” Irene announced, “I’m going to wear exactly what I want to wear whether it’s proper or not.”

Judy smiled at her independence. She had often felt that way herself. After all, what difference did it make? And Irene was breathtakingly lovely in the new dress. She stood before the long mirror in Pauline’s room while Judy pinned her hair in soft, bright curls at the back of her neck. Then she walked back a little distance, surveying the effect.

“You’re beautiful!” Judy exclaimed. “That dress fits in with your complexion as though you were part of a picture. You’re prettier than Lois or Honey or Lorraine. Don’t you think so, Pauline?”

She admitted it.

“Prettier than Lorraine?” Irene repeated wonderingly. Lorraine Lee had always considered herself the prettiest girl in Farringdon and dressed accordingly, while Irene’s faded blues and browns had never flattered her. But in the new yellow dress she was transformed. There was a tiny jacket to go with it, also of yellow but more delicately golden, matching slippers and, in the very bottom of the box, a gold locket. Irene, delighting in her own recklessness, wore them all the next morning.