But before she had taken three steps she stopped, looking rather annoyed; for the head that rose from behind the tall desk was not rough and gray, but brown and smooth, and Mac, not Uncle Alec, sat there writing. Late experience had taught her that she had nothing to fear from a tête-à-tête; and, having with difficulty taken a resolution, she did not like to fail of carrying it out.
"Don't get up: I won't trouble you if you are busy; there is no hurry", she said, not quite sure whether it were wiser to stay or run away.
Mac settled the point, by taking the pen out of her hand and beginning to cut it, as quietly as Nicholas did on that "thrilling" occasion. Perhaps he was thinking of that; for he smiled as he asked,—
"Hard or soft?"
Rose evidently had forgotten that the family of Squeers ever existed, for she answered,—
"Hard, please," in a voice to match. "I'm glad to see you doing that", she added, taking courage from his composure, and going as straight to her point as could be expected of a woman.
"And I am very glad to do it."
"I don't mean making pens, but the romance I advised," and she touched the closely written page before him, looking as if she would like to read it.
"That is my abstract of a lecture on the circulation of the blood," he answered, kindly turning it so that she could see. "I don't write romances: I'm living
