In which an unambitious secretary to the Great Miss Driver sketches her career--the career of a masterful young woman of wealth, a dictator and financier, the possessor of a man's perspective and sense of justice and the heart of a woman. To her, shortcomings in big men may well be overlooked. "They have their big lives, their big selves, to look after. They can't spend all the time thinking whether they are doing justice to a woman."
bred for a parson but, for reasons of his own, averse from adopting the sacred calling, is commonly not too well fitted for other avocations--unless perhaps he would be a schoolmaster, and my taste did not lie that way. In default of private means, an easy berth at four hundred pounds a year may well seem a godsend. It had assumed some such celestial guise to me when, on the casual introduction of my uncle one day in London, Mr. Driver had offered it to me. As his private secretary, I drew the aforementioned very liberal salary, I had my "office" in the big house on the hill, I dwelt in the Old Priory (that is to say, in the little dwelling house built on to the ruinous remains of the ancient foundation), I was seldom asked for more than three hours' work a day, I had a horse to ride, and plenty of leisure for the books I loved. It would be very unfortunate to have to give up all that. Verily the question "What is she like?" had a practical, an economic, importance for me which raised it far above the sphere