John Dene of Toronto: A Comedy of Whitehall. Jenkins Herbert George
dream. "You'll get twenty dollars in future."
She looked up quickly. "You're very kind, Mr. Dene," she said, "but is it – is it – ?" she hesitated.
"It's a square deal. I told them you wouldn't take it from me, and that I wasn't going to have my secretary paid less than an office boy in T'ronto. I gingered 'em up some. Nine dollars a week for you!"
The tone in which the last sentence was uttered brought a slight flush to Dorothy's cheeks.
"Now you can get on," he announced, picking up his hat. "I'm going to find offices;" and he went out like a gust of wind.
Dorothy typed steadily on. Of one thing she had become convinced, that the position of secretary to John Dene of Toronto was not going to prove a rest-billet.
At a little after four Marjorie Rogers knocked at the door and, recognising Dorothy's "Come in," entered stealthily as if expecting someone to jump out at her.
"Where's the bear, Wessie?" she enquired, keeping a weather eye on the door in case John Dene should return.
"Gone out to buy bear-biscuits," laughed Dorothy, leaning back in her chair to get the kink out of her spine.
"Do you think he'll marry you?" enquired the little brunette romantically, as she perched herself upon John Dene's table and swung a pretty leg. "They don't usually, you know."
"He'll probably kill you if he catches you," said Dorothy.
"Oh, if he comes I'm here to ask if you would like some tea," was the airy reply.
"You angel!" cried Dorothy. "I should love it."
"Has he tried to kiss you yet?" demanded the girl, looking at Dorothy searchingly.
"Don't be ridiculous," cried Dorothy, conscious that she was flushing.
"I see he has," she said, regarding Dorothy judicially and nodding her head wisely.
Dorothy re-started typing. It was absurd, she decided, to endeavour to argue with this worldly child of Whitehall.
"They're all the same," continued Marjorie, lifting her skirt slightly and gazing with obvious approval at the symmetry of her leg. "You didn't let him, I hope," continued the girl. "You see, it makes it bad for others." Then a moment later she added, "It should be chocs. before kisses, and they've got to learn the ropes."
"And you, you little imp, have got to learn morals." Dorothy laughed in spite of herself at the quaint air of wisdom with which this girl of eighteen settled the ethics of Whitehall.
"What's the use of morals?" cried the girl. "I mean morals that get in the way of your having a good time. Of course I wouldn't – " She paused.
"Never mind what you wouldn't do, Brynhilda the Bold," said Dorothy, "but concentrate on the woulds, and bring me the tea you promised."
The girl slipped off the table and darted across the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of tea and a few biscuits.
"I can't stop," she panted. "Old Goggles has been giving me the bird;" and with that she was gone.
It was a quarter to seven before John Dene returned. Without a word he threw his hat on the bookcase and seated himself at his table. For the next quarter of an hour he was absorbed in reading the lists and letters Dorothy had typed. At seven o'clock Dorothy placed the last list on the table before him.
"Is there anything more, Mr. Dene?" she enquired. She was conscious of feeling inexpressibly weary.
"Yes," said John Dene, without looking up. "You're coming out to have some dinner."
"I'm afraid I can't, thank you," she said. "My mother is waiting."
"Oh shucks!" he cried, looking up quickly.
"But it isn't!" she said wearily.
"Isn't what?" demanded John Dene.
"Shucks!" she said; then, seeing the absurdity of the thing, she laughed.
"We'll send your mother an express message or a wire. You look dead beat." He smiled and Dorothy capitulated. It would be nice, she told herself, not to have to go all the way to Chiswick before having anything to eat.
"But where are you taking me, Mr. Dene?" enquired Dorothy, as they turned from Waterloo Place into Pall Mall.
"To the Ritzton."
"But I'm – I'm – " she stopped dead.
"What's wrong?" he demanded, looking at her in surprise.
"I – I can't go there," she stammered. "I'm not dressed for – " She broke off lamely.
"That'll be all right," he said. "It's my hotel."
"It may be your hotel," said Dorothy, resuming the walk, "but I don't care to go there in a blouse and a skirt to be stared at."
"Who'll stare at you?"
"Not at me, at my clothes," she corrected.
"Then we'll go to the grill-room," he replied with inspiration.
"That might be – " She hesitated.
"You're not going home until you have something to eat," he announced with determination. "You look all used up," he added.
Dorothy submitted to the inevitable, conscious of a feeling of content at having someone to decide things for her. Suddenly she remembered Marjorie Rogers' remarks. What was she doing? If any of the girls saw her they would – She had done the usual thing, sent a telegram to her mother to say she should be late, and was dining out with her chief on the first day – Oh! it was horrible.
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