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For a moment he didn't speak and then he said falteringly, "Miss — Miss — are you Miss Grace Jones?"
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secretary to one of the vice-presidents and I'm a typist out in the main office.
When Mary got home that night she came into my room and sat on the bottom of the bed and began to tell me how I ought to get out more and stop cooping myself up in four walls and wasting away. I guessed they had talked about me that evening. I said sure, I'd love to get out more and how did I go about it? She said she thought it might be because I didn't know how to get along with men too well and I said I thought she was right.
".You know what I'd do if I were you, Grace?" She spoke slowly. "I'd write that fellow you listen to on the radio — Mr. Monday. Tell him your problem. You put a lot of faith in his advice, and he may be just the one to tell you what to do."
It was true I liked to listen to him, liked his way of going to the heart of the problem. He had a dynamic way of talking, and his advice always had a lift to it. Still, writing to a stranger, putting my heart down on paper — I shook my head.
"I can't do it, Mary. It might be smart. But it's out of the question."
Mary didn't say any more about it. She told me about the party that night and the people they'd met and then she said goodnight and went off to bed.
I thought over the idea, after she'd gone. Lay there in the dark and debated with myself. I felt a little ashamed to think I might have to write somebody to ask how to live, but I knew it was foolish to look at it that way. Mr. Monday might be able to give me the advice I