“It’s all over the country now, Miss Wallace, with the war. Many women doing a fine job as reporters. Even editors.”

“Yes, but now that the war’s over, they’re going to get sent back to their kitchens, aren’t they?”

“I suppose they are.”

“Well, I’d accept the offer, Mr.—Harry, but I guess I have my heart set on being a teacher. And you didn’t tell me if I was correct.”

“You’ll have to do some more investigation.”

She made a face.

“So, what do you want to teach?”

“First grade,” she said, serious again, swirling her fork through her potatoes.

He was struck by her certainty. “Why first grade?”

“Because it’s such a place of—beginning!” she said.

Harry speared three little green bean logs onto his fork. “I guess it would be nice to work in a place like that.”

“How did you become a newspaperman?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “when I was in college, I majored in English. Decided I wanted to be a writer. Pictured myself the next Hemingway, you know. Newspaper reporting gave me a way to support myself.”

“Oh!” she said. “So, have you written—books?”

“A couple,” he said, with a small smile.

“How exciting! Do they have them at the library? I’d like to read them.”

“No. They’re just in my closet.”

“In your closet? Do you mean—you mean they haven’t been published?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, what a shame! Have you tried?”

He shrugged. “Not much. Been too busy.”

“Well, why not? To have a great talent and then not even try to share it! It seems such a shame.”

He laughed. “It’s charitable of you to assume that I have great talent.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “I can tell just by the way you look at me.”

“By the way I look at you?”

“Yes! You’re sizing me up, but not the way that most men do.”

He set down his fork and leaned back, embarrassed.

“Most men,” she continued, “just look at the outside. But you—you look as though you’re trying to see right through me. As though a million little questions about me are running through your mind.