Agnes passed the examination at the War Department, Dr. Aaronson told her. She no longer had to work as a secretary.
“And scored second highest,” the doctor said, wiggling his gray moustache at her. “The first woman I’ve ever seen to do so well on a mathematics examination. A regular Sir Isaac Newton you are.”
Even though she’d left St. Patrick’s school fifteen years earlier, Agnes remembered the calculus – differentials, integrals, and lots of lovely Greek symbols. Uncle Collin had made her feel like a vulgar charlatan for doing well in mathematics. But now the good Doctor Aaronson complimented her.
“Mind you, I still expect the secretarial balabusta to work very hard for me, so don’t let this go to your head. We’ll be working on a project of national importance – but that’s all I can tell you.”
She didn’t care what they were doing – as long as she didn’t have to type memoranda for the thin-lipped, constipated-looking Mr. McIlhenny. Dr. Aaronson with the wild gray hair would be a lot more fun.
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