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Most of the way to Westminster in the almost aggressively unostentatious Daimler (so impersonal you could believe it part of an undertaker’s fleet), I cursed my mistake as a poor recommendation for any kind of job.  I had feared Rainier might be waiting for me, and was relieved when, after sending in my name, I had to kill time for half an hour before a policeman led me through devious passages to the Terrace, where Rainier greeted me warmly.  But his appearance was slightly disconcerting; there was a twitch about his mouth and eyes as he spoke, and a general impression of intense nervous energy in desperate need of relaxation.  During tea he talked about his South American trip, assuming far too modestly that I had read nothing about it in the papers.  Presently the division bell rang and only as we hurried across the Smoking Room did he broach the matter I had really come about.  “I inquired from a good many people after I got your letter, Harrison, but there doesn’t seem to be a thing doing in Fleet Street just now.”
    “That was my own experience too.”
    “So I wondered if you’d care for a secretary’s job until something else turns up?”
    I hadn’t really thought about such a thing, and maybe hesitation revealed my disappointment.
    He said, patting my arm:  “Well, think it over, anyway.  I’ve had a girl up to now, but she’s due to get married in a few weeks—time enough to show you the ropes . . . that is, of course, if you feel you’d like the job at all. . . .”
     
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    So I became Rainier’s secretary, and Miss Hobbs showed me the ropes.  It had been flattery to call her a girl.  She was thin, red-faced, middle-aged, and so worshipful of Rainier that no husband could hope to get more than a remnant of any emotion she was capable of; indeed, I felt that the chance of marriage was tempting her more because she feared it might be her last than because she was certain she wanted it.  She hinted this much during our first meeting.  “I almost feel I’m deserting HIM,” she said, and the stress on “him” was revealing.  Presently, showing me how she filed his correspondence, she added:  “I’m so relieved he isn’t going to have another LADY secretary.  I’d be afraid of some awful kind of person coming here and—perhaps—INFLUENCING him.”
    I said I didn’t imagine Rainier was the type to be influenced by that kind of woman.
    “Oh, but you never know what kind of a woman will influence a man.”
    We went on inspecting the filing system.  “The main thing is to see he doesn’t forget his appointments.  He doesn’t do much of his correspondence here—he has another secretary at his City office.  So it won’t matter a great deal if you don’t know shorthand and typewriting.”
    I said I did know shorthand and typewriting.
    “Well, so much the better, of course.  You’ll find him wonderful to work with—at least I always have, though of course we’re more like old friends than employer and secretary.  I call him Charles, you know, when we’re alone together.  And he always calls me Elsie, whether we’re alone or not.  We’ve been together now for nearly fifteen years, so it’s really quite natural, don’t you think?”
    During the next few hours she gave me her own version of the entire Rainier ménage.  “Of course the marriage never has been all it should be—I daresay you can imagine that.  Mrs. Rainier isn’t the right kind of wife for a man like Charles.  He’s so tired of all those parties she gives, especially the house-parties at Stourton— that’s their big place in the country, you know . . . they have no children—that’s another thing, because he’d love children, and I don’t know why they don’t have them, maybe there’s a reason.  When you’ve worked with him for a time you’ll feel how restless he is—I do blame her for THAT—she doesn’t give