"James McKenzie Stuart! What a tone to take! Why on earth should you object?" Georgiana's tone was rich and sweet and astonished--it certainly sounded astonished.
"Because you're my chum, my partner; and I won't have you going into partnership with any other man--not much!"
"Partnership! Secretaries and stenographers aren't partners----"
"Aren't they, though! The most intimate sort. And a fellow like Jefferson, full of books and literary lore--he'd be breaking off work half his time to talk Montaigne and Samuel Johnson and--and Bernard Shaw with you. And you'd drink it all in with those eyes of yours and make him think----" Georgiana's uncontrollable laughter halted but did not stop him. "What's his work, anyhow? Writing a History of Art?" growled Stuart, marching on, with Georgiana beside him bursting into fresh mirth with every step. Her heart was quite light enough now; no danger that she had lost her friend!
"I've no idea what it is, but it's certainly not that. He seldom speaks of art in any form--except literary art, of course. I've an idea it's scientific research of some sort."
"Then why isn't he in a laboratory somewhere, boiling acids? Why isn't he digging in city libraries or hunting scientific stuff over in Vienna? Vienna's the place for him. I wish him there fast enough," irritably continued this asperser of other men's vocations.
"His research work has undoubtedly been done; he has pile upon pile of notebooks and papers on file. His handwriting is a fright; that's probably what he wants me for--to make it legible to the printer."
"Let him send for a typist then; that's what he needs if he writes an illegible fist. You can't typewrite."
"I could learn, if necessary. I've often wished I could."
"You could learn! Yes, you could learn to come when E. C. Jefferson whistled, I've no doubt! Oh, I beg your pardon, George--you needn't turn away. Nobody could ever fancy you coming at any man's whistle. I'm just seeing red, that's all, at the thought of your going into a thing like this, that's bound to throw you two into the closest sort of relations."
"That's all nonsense, Jimps. You're behaving like a little boy. And you know I can't afford to lose a chance like this. You know how slow the rug-weaving is----"