“You are quite sure you can do that?”

“Certainly, sir!” This was said with pouting lips, half-shut eyes, the head thrown back, the chin thrust forward, the whole face bright with smiles of provoking defiance.  “Do you doubt it, Monsieur?” She pronounced this word Moshoor.

Farnham thought in his heart “You are about as fit to take care of yourself as a plump pigeon at a shooting match.”  But he said to her, “Perhaps you are right—­only don’t brag.  It isn’t lucky.  I do not know what are the chances about this place.  You would do well to get some of your friends to write a letter or two in your behalf, and I will see what can be done at the next meeting of the Board.”

But her returning fluency had warmed up Miss Maud’s courage somewhat, and instead of taking her leave she began again, blushingly, but still boldly enough: 

“There is something I would like much better than the library.”

Farnham looked at her inquiringly.  She did not hesitate in the least, but pushed on energetically, “I have thought you must need a secretary.  I should be glad to serve you in that capacity.”

The young man stared with amazement at this preposterous proposal.  For the first time, he asked himself if the girl’s honest face could be the ambush of a guileful heart; but he dismissed the doubt in an instant, and said, simply: 

“No, thank you.  I am my own secretary, and have no reason for displacing the present incumbent.  The library will suit you better in every respect.”

In her embarrassment she began to feel for her glasses, which were lying in her lap.  Farnham picked up a small photograph from the table near him, and said: 

“Do you recognize this?”

“Yes,” she said.  “It is General Grant.”

“It is a photograph of him, taken in Paris, which I received to-day.  May I ask a favor of you?”

“What is it?” she said, shyly.

“Stop wearing those glasses.  They are of no use to you, and they will injure your eyes.”

Her face turned crimson.  Without a word of reply she seized the glasses and put them on, her eyes flashing fire.  She then rose and threw her shawl over her arm, and said, in a tone to which her repressed anger lent a real dignity: 

“When can I learn about that place in the library?”

“Any time after Wednesday,” Farnham answered.

She bowed and walked out of the room.  She could not indulge in tragic strides, for her dress held her like a scabbard, giving her scarcely more freedom of movement than the high-born maidens of Carthage enjoyed, who wore gold fetters on their ankles until they were married.  But in spite of all impediments her tall figure moved, with that grace which is the birthright of beauty in any circumstances, out of the door, through the wide hall to the outer entrance, so rapidly that Farnham could hardly keep pace with her.  As he opened the door she barely acknowledged his parting salutation, and swept like a huffy goddess down the steps.  Farnham gazed after her a moment, admiring the undulating line from the small hat to the long and narrow train which dragged on the smooth stones of the walk.  He then returned to the library.  Budsey was mending the fire.