MISS MATFIELD WONDERS 20Q

the way, what is it you do pretend to be particularly
marvellous at?"

"Does that matter?" This in her best haughty
manner. Everybody in the office knew it and respected
it.

But Mr, Golspie only gave her a friendly leer. "Of
course it matters," he declared heartily, "Now I like
to know these things. Take me. I used to play a good
game at billiards, and I can still play poker with the
best, bridge, too. Oh, and I can crack walnuts between
my finger and thumb-fact!" He held up a very large
thick hairy finger and thumb that matched it. "And
that's not all either. Still—we are a bit busy, aren't we?"

"I am." Miss Matfield looked at her typewriter,

"And so," he continued cheerfully, "for the time
being, we'll say it doesn't matter. I'll take these nice
grammatical letters away with me. You've addressed
the envelopes, have you? Right." He turned his broad
back on her, gave Mr. Smeeth a wink, whistled softly,
and departed for the private office.

Miss Matfield drew her full lower lip between her
teeth and frowned at her typewriter. As usual, she was
left with a vague sense of defeat. It was, of course, the
man's insensitiveness—and she saw again that large
thick hairy finger—that made him so difficult to snub.
Nobody else in the office had dared to talk to her as he
did, not after she had spent her first hour in the build-
ing. It was a nuisance, not being able to put him in his
place, as Mr. Dersingham, Mr, Smeeth, and the others
had been put in their places. It was annoying to think
that the very next time he spoke to her, he would prob-
ably talk in the same strain, not altogether an un-
friendly strain, but disrespectful, jeering, humiliating