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 her head, she could look older than she was. She appeared at least twenty-five, she thought. She wanted to look older than twenty-three; not because it was actually her own age but because it was his. Only by seeming to be much older, and therefore not to be suspected of loving him, was her situation bearable.

She was secretary to his father, who was one of those men who dictate correspondence upon even the most highly personal and intimate matter. Ellen had been precipitated into his private affairs by the sudden illness of Miss Danforth, a much older woman. When Ellen was called into the president's office and seated herself, in Miss Danforth's place, she had known of Jay Rountree only that he existed, was at Harvard, and that he and his father were very different.

Immediately she was writing taunts and sarcasm at the boy which set her heart to thumping and her fingers to quivering, in his defense, as she hurried her scribbles to keep pace with the biting words. Could a man mean to say such things to his son?

Mr. Rountree entirely ignored her. She was not to him a girl of twenty-one to feel for this boy of her own age, whatever he was and whatever he had done. She was not to Mr. Rountree a new individual at all. He called her "Miss Danforth" when he gave her a direction.

She typed the letter with her mind on the boy who would read it, if it was to be sent. She could not yet believe that. But when she brought it to Mr. Rountree, he merely underscored the most sarcastic sentences and signed it. So she folded, sealed it and put it in the mail.