Perhaps it was the pathos of this thought which touched MrMeggs， as she sailed， notebook in hand， through the doorwayof the study. Here， he told himself， was a confiding girl， allunconscious of impending doom， relying on him as a daughterrelies on her father. He was glad that he had not forgotten MissPillenger when he was making his preparations.
He had certainly not forgotten Miss Pillenger. On his deskbeside the letters lay a little pile of notes， amounting in all tofive hundred pounds—her legacy.
Miss Pillenger was always business-like. She sat down inher chair， opened her notebook， moistened her pencil， andwaited expectantly for Mr Meggs to clear his throat and beginwork on the butterflies. She was surprised when， instead offrowning， as was his invariable practice when bracing himselffor composition， he bestowed upon her a sweet， slow smile.
All that was maidenly and defensive in Miss Pillenger leapedto arms under that smile. It ran in and out among her nervecentres.
It had been long in arriving， this moment of crisis， buthere it undoubtedly was at last. After twenty years an employerwas going to court disaster by trying to flirt with her.
Mr Meggs went on smiling. You cannot classify smiles.
Nothing lends itself so much to a variety of interpretations as asmile. Mr Meggs thought he was smiling the sad， tender smileof a man who， knowing himself to be on the brink of the tomb，bids farewell to a faithful employee. Miss Pillenger’s view wasthat he was smiling like an abandoned old rip who ought tohave been ashamed of himself.
“No， Miss Pillenger，” said Mr Meggs， “I shall not work thismorning. I shall want you， if you will be so good， to post thesesix letters for me.”
Miss Pillenger took the letters. Mr Meggs surveyed hertenderly.
“Miss Pillenger， you have been with me a long time now.
Six years， is it not？ Six years. Well， well. I don’t think I haveever made you a little present， have I？”
“You give me a good salary.”
“Yes， but I want to give you something more. Six years is along time. I have come to regard you with a different feelingfrom that which the ordinary employer feels for his secretary.
You and I have worked together for six long years. Surely Imay be permitted to give you some token of my appreciationof your fidelity.’ He took the pile of notes. ‘these are for you，Miss Pillenger.”
He rose and handed them to her. He eyed her for a momentwith all the sentimentality of a man whose digestion has beenout of order for over two decades. The pathos of the situationswept him away. He bent over Miss Pillenger， and kissed heron the forehead.
Smiles excepted， there is nothing so hard to classify as akiss. Mr Meggs’s notion was that he kissed Miss Pillengermuch as some great general， wounded unto death， might havekissed his mother， his sister， or some particularly sympatheticaunt； Miss Pillenger’s view， differing substantially from this，may be outlined in her own words.
“Ah！” she cried， as， dealing Mr Meggs’s conveniently placedjaw a blow which， had it landed an inch lower down， mighthave knocked him out， she sprang to her feet. ‘How dare you！
I’ve been waiting for this Mr Meggs. I have seen it in youreye. I have expected it. Let me tell you that I am not at allthe sort of girl with whom it is safe to behave like that. I canprotect myself. I am only a working-girl—’
Mr Meggs， who had fallen back against the desk as astricken pugilist falls on the ropes， pulled himself together toprotest.
“Miss Pillenger，” he cried， aghast， “you misunderstand me. Ihad no intention—”
“Misunderstand you？ Bah！ I am only a working-girl—”
“Nothing was farther from my mind—”
“Indeed！ Nothing was farther from your mind！ You giveme money， you shower your vile kisses on me， but nothingwas farther from your mind than the obvious interpretation ofsuch behaviour！” Before coming to Mr Meggs， Miss Pillengerhad been secretary to an Indiana novelist. She had learnedstyle from the master. “Now that you have gone too far， youare frightened at what you have done. You well may be， MrMeggs. I am only a working-girl—”
“Miss Pillenger， I implore you—”
“silence！ I am only a working-girl—”
A wave of mad fury swept over Mr Meggs. The shock of theblow and still more of the frightful ingratitude of this horriblewoman nearly made him foam at the mouth.
“Don’t keep on saying you’re only a working-girl，” hebellowed. “You’ll drive me mad. Go. Go away from me. Getout. Go anywhere， but leave me alone！”
Miss Pillenger was not entirely sorry to obey the request.
Mr Meggs’s sudden fury had startled and frightened her. Solong as she could end the scene victorious， she was anxious towithdraw.
“Yes， I will go，” she said， with dignity， as she opened thedoor. “Now that you have revealed yourself in your truecolours， Mr Meggs， this house is no fit place for a wor—”
She caught her employer’s eye， and vanished hastily.
Mr Meggs paced the room in a ferment. He had been shakento his core by the scene. He boiled with indignation. That hiskind thoughts should have been so misinterpreted—it was toomuch. Of all ungrateful worlds， this world was the most—He stopped suddenly in his stride， partly because his shinhad struck a chair， partly because an idea had struck his mind.
Hopping madly， he added one more parallel between himselfand Hamlet by soliloquizing aloud.
“I’ll be hanged if I commit suicide，” he yelled.
And as he spoke the words a curious peace fell on him， ason a man who has awakened from a nightmare. He sat downat the desk. What an idiot he had been ever to contemplateself-destruction. What could have induced him to do it？ Byhis own hand to remove himself， merely in order that a packof ungrateful brutes might wallow in his money—it was thescheme of a perfect fool.
