Though I had never been in so splendid a place before--it was one of
those big houses just off Fifth Avenue--I had a suspicion from the first
that the magnificence covered a secret disturbance. I was always quick
to receive impressions, and when the black iron doors swung together
behind me, I felt as if I were shut inside of a prison.
When I gave my name and explained that I was the new secretary, I was
delivered into the charge of an elderly lady's maid, who looked as if
she had been crying. Without speaking a word, though she nodded kindly
enough, she led me down the hall, and then up a flight of stairs at the
back of the house to a pleasant bedroom in the third story. There was a
great deal of sunshine, and the walls, which were painted a soft yellow,
made the room very cheerful. It would be a comfortable place to sit in
when I was not working, I thought, while the sad-faced maid stood
watching me remove my wraps and hat.
"If you are not tired, Mrs. Vanderbridge would like to dictate a few
letters," she said presently, and they were the first words she had
spoken.
"I am not a bit tired. Will you take me to her?" One of the reasons, I
knew, which had decided Mrs. Vanderbridge to engage me was the
remarkable similarity of our handwriting. We were both Southerners, and
though she was now famous on two continents for her beauty, I couldn't
forget that she had got her early education at the little academy for
young ladies in Fredericksburg.
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