The Grain of Dust: A Novel

  V

  Toward noon the following day Norman, suddenly in need of astenographer, sent out for Miss Purdy, one of the three experts ateighteen dollars a week who did most of the important and veryconfidential work for the heads of the firm. When his door opened againhe saw not Miss Purdy but Miss Hallowell.

  "Miss Purdy is sick to-day," said she. "Mr. Tetlow wishes to know if Iwould do."

  Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. "Just aswell--perfectly--certainly," he stammered. He was not looking ather--seemed wholly occupied with the business he was preparing todispatch.

  She seated herself in the usual place, at the opposite side of the broadtable. With pencil poised she fixed her gaze upon the unmarred page ofher open notebook. Instead of abating, his confusion increased. He couldnot think of the subject about which he wished to dictate. First, henoted how long her lashes were--and darker than her hair, as were herwell-drawn eyebrows also. Never had he seen so white a skin or one sosmooth. She happened to be wearing a blouse with a Dutch neck that day.What a superb throat! What a line of beauty its gently swelling curvemade. Then his glance fell upon her lips, rosy-red, slightly pouted. Andwhat masses of dead gold hair--no, not gold, but of the white-gray ofwood ashes, and tinted with gold! No wonder it was difficult to telljust what color her hair was. Hair like that was ready to be of anycolor. And there were her arms, so symmetrical in her rather tightsleeves, and emerging into view in the most delicate wrists. What amarvelous skin!

  "Have you ever posed?"

  She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes shot a glanceof terror at him. "I--I," she stammered. Then almost defiantly, "Yes, Idid--for a while. But I didn't suppose anyone knew. At the time weneeded the money badly."

  Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such aquestion, and for having surprised her secret. "There's nothing to beashamed of," he said gently.

  "Oh, I'm not ashamed," she returned. Her agitation had subsided. "Theonly reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the paysmall and uncertain. I was confused because they discharged me at thelast place I had, when they found out I had been a model. It was achurch paper office."

  Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes. But he did not takethe hint. "Is there anything you would rather do than this sort ofwork?" he asked.

  "Nothing I could afford," replied she.

  "If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helpedyou."

  "I couldn't afford to do that," said the girl in her quiet, reticentway.

  "To do what?"

  "To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it."

  Norman smiled somewhat cynically. Probably the girl fancied she wastruthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves."What would you like to do?"

  She did not answer his question until she had shrunk completely withinherself and was again thickly veiled with the expression which madeeveryone think her insignificant. "Nothing I could afford to do," saidshe. It was plain that she did not wish to be questioned further alongthat line.

  "The stage?" he persisted.

  "I hadn't thought of it," was her answer.

  "What then?"

  "I don't think about things I can't have. I never made any definiteplans."

  "But isn't it a good idea always to look ahead? As long as one has to bemoving, one might as well move in a definite direction."

  She was waiting with pencil poised.

  "There isn't much of a future at this business."

  She shrank slightly. He felt that she regarded his remark as preparationfor a kindly hint that she was not giving satisfaction. . . . Well, why notleave it that way? Perhaps she would quit of her own accord--would sparehim the trouble--and embarrassment--of arranging with Tetlow for anotherplace for her. He began to dictate--gave her a few sentences mockinglydifferent from his usual terse and clear statements--interrupted himselfwith:

  "You misunderstood me a while ago. I didn't mean you weren't doing yourwork well. On the contrary, I think you'll soon be expert. But I thoughtperhaps I might be able to help you to something you'd like better."

  He listened to his own words in astonishment. What new freak of madnesswas this? Instead of clearing himself of this uncanny girl, he wasproposing things to her that would mean closer relations. And whatreason had he to think she was fitted for anything but just what she wasnow doing--doing indifferently well?

  "Thank you," she said, so quietly that it seemed coldly, "but I'msatisfied as I am."

  Her manner seemed to say with polite and restrained plainness that shewas not in the least appreciative of his interest or of himself. Butthis could not be. No girl in her position could fail to be grateful forhis interest. No woman, in all his life, had ever failed to respond tohis slightest advance. No, it simply could not be. She was merely shy,and had a peculiar way of showing it. He said:

  "You have no ambition?"

  "That's not for a woman."

  She was making her replies as brief as civility permitted. He observedher narrowly. She was not shy, not embarrassed. What kind of game wasthis? It could not be in sincere nature for a person in her positionthus to treat overtures, friendly and courteous overtures, from one inhis position. And never before--never--had a woman been thusunresponsive. Instead of feeling relief that she had disentangled himfrom the plight into which his impulsive offer had flung him, he waspiqued--angered--and his curiosity was inflamed as never before aboutany woman.

  The relations of the sexes are for the most part governed by traditionsof sex allurements and sex tricks so ancient that they have ceased to beconscious and have become instinctive. One of these venerable firstprinciples is that mystery is the arch provoker. Norman, an old andexpert student of the great game--the only game for which the staidestand most serious will abandon all else to follow its merry call--Normanknew this trick of mystery. The woman veils herself and makes believe tofly--an excellent trick, as good to-day as ever after five thousandyears of service. And he knew that in it lay the explanation for thesudden and high upflaming of his interest in this girl. "What an ass I'mmaking of myself!" reflected he. "When I care nothing about the girl,why should I care about the mystery of her? Of course, it's some poorlittle affair, a puzzle not worth puzzling out."

  All true and clear enough. Yet seeing it did not abate his interest aparticle. She had veiled herself; she was pretending--perhapshonestly--to fly. He rose and went to the window, stood with his back toher, resumed dictating. But the sentences would not come. He whirledabruptly. "I'm not ready to do the thing yet," he said. "I'll send foryou later."

  Without a word or a glance she stood, took her book and went toward thedoor. He gazed after her. He could not refrain from speaking again. "I'mafraid you misunderstood my offer a while ago," said he, neither curtnor friendly. "I forgot how such things from a man to a young womanmight be misinterpreted."

  "I never thought of that," replied she unembarrassed. "It was simplythat I can't put myself under obligation to anyone."

  As she stood there, her full beauty flashed upon him--the exquisiteform, the subtly graceful poise of her body, of her head--the lovelinessof that golden-hued white skin--the charm of her small rosy mouth--thedelicate, sensitive, slightly tilted nose--and her eyes--above all, hereyes!--so clear, so sweet. Her voice had seemed thin and faint to him;its fineness now seemed the rarest delicacy--the exactly fitting kindfor so evasive and delicate a beauty as hers. He made a slight bow ofdismissal, turned abruptly away. Never in all his life, strewn withgallant experiences--never had a woman thus treated him, and never had awoman thus affected him. "I am mad--stark mad!" he muttered. "Aten-dollar-a-week typewriter, whom nobody on earth but myself would lookat a second time!" But something within him hurled back this scornfulfling. Though no one else on earth saw or appreciated--what of it? Sheaffected _him_ thus--and that was enough. "_I_ want her! . . . I _want_her! I have never wanted a woman before."

  He rushed into the dressing room attached to hi
s office, plunged hisface into ice-cold water. This somewhat eased the burning sensation thatwas becoming intolerable. Many were the unaccountable incidents in hisacquaintance with this strange creature; the most preposterous was thissudden seizure. He realized now that his feeling for her had been likethe quiet, steady, imperceptible filling of a reservoir that suddenlyannounces itself by the thunder and roar of a mighty cascade over thedam. "This is madness--sheer madness! I am still master within myself. Iwill make short work of this rebellion." And with an air of calmness soconvincing that he believed in it he addressed himself to the task ofsanity and wisdom lying plain before him. "A man of my position caughtby a girl like that! A man such as I am, caught by _any_ woman whatever!"It was grotesque. He opened his door to summon Tetlow.

  The gate in the outside railing was directly opposite, and about thirtyfeet away. Tetlow and Miss Hallowell were going out--evidently to lunchtogether. She was looking up at the chief clerk with laughing eyes--theyseemed coquettish to the infuriated Norman. And Tetlow--the serious andsquab young ass was gazing at her with the expression men of the stupidsquab sort put on when they wish to impress a woman. At this spectacle,at the vision of that slim young loveliness, that perfect form anddeliciously smooth soft skin, white beyond belief beneath its faintlygolden tint--the hot blood steamed up into Norman's brain, blinded hissight, reddened it with desire and jealousy. He drew back, closed hisdoor with a bang.

  "This is not I," he muttered. "What has happened? Am I insane?"

  * * * * *

  When Tetlow returned from lunch the office boy on duty at the gate toldhim that Mr. Norman wished to see him at once. Like all men trying toadvance along ways where their fellow men can help or hinder, the headclerk was full of more or less clever little tricks thought out with aview to making a good impression. One of them was to stamp upon allminds his virtue of promptness--of what use to be prompt unless youforced every one to feel how prompt you were? He went in to see Norman,with hat in hand and overcoat on his back and one glove off, the otherstill on. Norman was standing at a window, smoking a cigarette. Hisappearance--dress quite as much as manner--was the envy of hissubordinate--as, indeed, it was of hundreds of the young men strugglingto rise down town. It was so exactly what the appearance of a man ofvigor and power and high position should be. Tetlow practiced it by thequarter hour before his glass at home--not without progress in thedirection of a not unimpressive manner of his own.

  As Tetlow stood at attention, Norman turned and advanced toward him."Mr. Tetlow," he began, in his good-humored voice with the never whollysubmerged under-note of sharpness, "is it your habit to go out to lunchwith the young ladies employed here? If so, I wish to suggest--simply tosuggest--that it may be bad for discipline."

  Tetlow's jaw dropped a little. He looked at Norman, was astonished todiscover beneath a thin veneer of calm signs of greater agitation thanhe had ever seen in him. "To-day was the first time, sir," he said. "AndI can't quite account for my doing it. Miss Hallowell has been hereseveral months. I never specially noticed her until the last fewdays--when the question of discharging her came up. You may remember itwas settled by you." Norman flung his cigarette away and stalked to thewindow.

  "Mr. Norman," pursued Tetlow, "you and I have been together many years.I esteem it my greatest honor that I am able--that you permit me--toclass you as my friend. So I'm going to give you a confidence--one thatreally startles me. I called on Miss Hallowell last night."

  Norman's back stiffened.

  "She is even more charming in her own home. And--" Tetlow blushed andtrembled--"I am going to make her my wife if I can."

  Norman turned, a mocking satirical smile unpleasantly sparkling in hiseyes and curling his mouth "Old man," he said, "I think you've gonecrazy."

  Tetlow made a helpless gesture. "I think so myself. I didn't intend tomarry for ten years--and then--I had quite a different match in mind."

  "What's the matter with you, Billy?" inquired Norman, inspecting himwith smiling, cruelly unfriendly eyes.

  "I'm damned if I know, Norman," said the head clerk, assuming that hisfriend was sympathetic and dropping into the informality of the old dayswhen they were clerks together in a small firm. "I'd have proposed toher last night if I hadn't been afraid I'd lose her by being in such ahurry. . . . You're in love yourself."

  Norman startled violently.

  "You're going to get married. Probably you can sympathize. You know howit is to meet the woman you want and must have."

  Norman turned away.

  "I've had--or thought I had--rather advanced ideas on the subject ofwomen. I've always had a horror of being married for a living or for ahome or as an experiment or a springboard. My notion's been that Iwouldn't trust a woman who wasn't independent. And theoretically I stillthink that's sound. But it doesn't work out in practice. A man has tohave been in love to be able to speak the last word on the sexquestion."

  Norman dropped heavily into his desk chair and rumpled his hair intodisorder. He muttered something--the head clerk thought it was an oath.

  "I'd marry her," Tetlow went on, "if I knew she was simply using me inthe coldest, most calculating way. My only fear is that I shan't be ableto get her--that she won't marry me."

  Norman sneered. "That's not likely," he said.

  "No, it isn't," admitted Tetlow. "They--the Hallowells--are nicepeople--of as good family as there is. But they're poor--very poor.There's only her father and herself. The old man is a scientist--spendsmost of his time at things that won't pay a cent--utterly impractical. Agentleman--an able man, if a little cracked--at least he seemed so to mewho don't know much about scientific matters. But getting poorersteadily. So I think she will accept me."

  A gloomy, angry frown, like a black shadow, passed across Norman's faceand disappeared. "You'd marry her--on those terms?" he sneered.

  "Of course I _hope_ for better terms----"

  Norman sprang up, strode to the window and turned his back.

  "But I'm prepared for the worst. The fact is, she treats me as if shedidn't care a rap for the honor of my showing her attention."

  "A trick, Billy. An old trick."

  "Maybe so. But--I really believe she doesn't realize. She's queer--hasbeen queerly brought up. Yes, I think she doesn't appreciate. Then, too,she's young and light--almost childish in some ways. . . . I don't blameyou for being disgusted with me, Fred. But--damn it, what's a man todo?"

  "Cure himself!" exploded Norman, wheeling violently on his friend. "Youmust act like a man. Billy, such a marriage is ruin for you. How can wetake you into partnership next year? When you marry, you must marry inthe class you're moving toward, not in any of those you're leavingbehind."

  "Do you suppose I haven't thought of all that?" rejoined Tetlowbitterly. "But I can't help myself. It's useless for me to say I'll try.I shan't try."

  "Don't you want to get over this?" demanded Norman fiercely.

  "Of course--No--I don't. Fred, you'd think better of me if you knewher. You've never especially noticed her. She's beautiful."

  Norman dropped to his chair again.

  "Really--beautiful," protested Tetlow, assuming that the gesture was oneof disgusted denial. "Take a good look at her, Norman, before youcondemn her. I never was so astonished as when I discovered howgood-looking she is. I don't quite know how it is, but I suppose nobodyever happened to see how--how lovely she is until I just chanced to seeit." At a rudely abrupt gesture from Norman he hurried on, eagerlyapologetic, "And if you talk with her--She's very reserved. But she'sthe lady through and through--and has a good mind. . . . At least, Ithink she has. I'll admit a man in love is a poor judge of a woman'smind. But, anyhow, I _know_ she's lovely to look at. You'll see ityourself, now that I've called your attention to it. You can't fail tosee it."

  Norman threw himself back in his chair and clasped his hands behind hishead. "_Why_ do you want to marry her?" he inquired, in a tone hissensitive ear approved as judicial.

  "How can I tell?"
replied the head clerk irritably. "Does a man everknow?"

  "Always--when he's sensibly in love."

  "But when he's just in love? That's what ails me," retorted Tetlow, witha sheepish look and laugh.

  "Billy, you've got to get over this. I can't let you make a fool ofyourself."

  Tetlow's fat, smooth, pasty face of the overfed, underexercisedprofessional man became a curious exhibit of alarm and obstinacy.

  "You've got to promise me you'll keep away from her--except at theoffice--for say, a week. Then--we'll see."

  Tetlow debated.

  "It's highly improbable that anyone else will discover theseirresistible charms. There's no one else hanging round?"

  "No one, as I told you the other day, when you questioned me about her."

  Norman shifted, looked embarrassed.

  "I hope I didn't give you the impression I was ashamed of loving her orwould ever be ashamed of her anywhere?" continued Tetlow, a veryloverlike light in his usually unromantic eyes. "If I did, it wasn'twhat I meant--far from it. You'll see, when I marry her, Norman. You'llbe congratulating me."

  Norman sprang up again. "This is plain lunacy, Tetlow. I am amazed atyou--amazed!"

  "Get acquainted with her, Mr. Norman," pleaded the subordinate. "Do it,to oblige me. Don't condemn us----"

  "I wish to hear nothing more!" cried Norman violently. "Another thing.You must find her a place in some other office--at once."

  "You're right, sir," assented Tetlow. "I can readily do that."

  Norman scowled at him, made an imperious gesture of dismissal. Tetlow,chopfallen but obdurate, got himself speedily out of sight.

  Norman, with hands deep in his pockets, stared out among the skyscrapersand gave way to a fit of remorse. It was foreign to his nature to dopetty underhanded tricks. Grand strategy--yes. At that he was an adept,and not the shiftiest, craftiest schemes he had ever devised had givenhim a moment's uneasiness. But to be driving a ten-dollar-a-weektypewriter out of her job--to be maneuvering to deprive her of a forher brilliant marriage--to be lying to an old and loyal retainer who hadhelped Norman full as much and as often as Norman had helped him--thesesneaking bits of skullduggery made him feel that he had sunk indeed. Buthe ground his teeth together and his eyes gleamed wickedly. "He shan'thave her, damn him!" he muttered. "She's not for him."

  He summoned Tetlow, who was obviously low in mind as the result ofrevolving the things that had been said to him. "Billy," he began in atone so amiable that he was ashamed for himself, "you'll not forget Ihave your promise?"

  "What did I promise?" cried Tetlow, his voice shrill with alarm.

  "Not to see her, except at the office, for a week."

  "But I've promised her father I'd call this evening. He's going to showme some experiments."

  "You can easily make an excuse--business."

  "But I don't want to," protested the head clerk. "What's the use? I'vegot my mind made up. Norman, I'd hang on after her if you fired me outof this office for it. And I can't rest--I'm fit for nothing--untilthis matter's settled. I came very near taking her aside and proposingto her, just after I went out of here a while ago."

  "You _damn_ fool!" cried Norman, losing all control of himself. "Take theafternoon express for Albany instead of Harcott and attend to thoseregistrations and arrange for those hearings. I'll do my best to saveyou. I'll bring the girl in here and keep her at work until you get outof the way."

  Tetlow glanced at his friend; then the tears came into his eyes. "You'rea hell of a friend!" he ejaculated. "And I thought you'd sympathizebecause you were in love."

  "I do sympathize, Billy," Norman replied with an abrupt change toshamefaced apology. "I sympathize more than you know. I feel like a dog,doing this. But it can't result in any harm, and I want you to get alittle fresh air in that hot brain of yours before you commit yourself.Be reasonable, old man. Suppose you rushed ahead and proposed--and sheaccepted--and then, after a few days, you came to. What about her? Youmust act on the level, Tetlow. Do the fair thing by yourself and byher."

  Norman had often had occasion to feel proud of the ingenuity andresourcefulness of his brain. He had never been quite so proud as he waswhen he finished that speech. It pacified Tetlow; it lightened his ownsense of guilt; it gave him a respite.

  Tetlow rewarded Norman with the look that in New York is the equivalentof the handclasp friend seeks from friend in times of stress. "You'reright, Fred. I'm much obliged to you. I haven't been considering _her_side of it enough. A man ought always to think of that. The women--poorthings--have a hard enough time to get on, at best."

  Norman's smile was characteristically cynical. Sentimentality amusedhim. "I doubt if there are more female wrecks than male wrecks scatteredabout the earth," rejoined he. "And I suspect the fact isn't due to thegentleness of man with woman, either. Don't fret for the ladies, Tetlow.They know how to take care of themselves. They know how to milk with asure and a steady hand. You may find it out by depressing experiencesome day."

  Tetlow saw the aim. His obstinate, wretched expression came back. "Idon't care. I've got----"

  "You went over that ground," interrupted Norman impatiently. "You'dbetter be catching the train."

  As Tetlow withdrew, he rang for an office boy and sent him to summonMiss Hallowell.

  Norman had been reasoning with himself--with the aid of the self thatwas both better and more worldly wise. He felt that his wrestlings hadnot been wholly futile. He believed he had got the strength to face thegirl with a respectful mind, with a mind resolute in duty--if notlove--toward Josephine Burroughs. "I _love_ Josephine," he said tohimself. "My feeling for this girl is some sort of physical attraction.I certainly shall be able to control it enough to keep it within myself.And soon it will die out. No doubt I've felt much the same thing asstrongly before. But it didn't take hold because I was never boundbefore--never had the sense of the necessity for restraint. That senseis always highly dangerous for my sort of man."

  This sounded well. He eyed the entering girl coldly, said in a voicethat struck him as excellent indifference, "Bring your machine in here,Miss Hallowell, and recopy these papers. I've made some changes. If youspoil any sheets, don't throw them away, but return everything to me."

  "I'm always careful about the waste-paper baskets," said she, "sincethey warned me that there are men who make a living searching the wastethrown out of offices."

  He made no reply. He could not have spoken if he had tried. Once morethe spell had seized him--the spell of her weird fascination for him. Asshe sat typewriting, with her back almost toward him, he sat watchingher and analyzing his own folly. He knew that diagnosing a disease doesnot cure it; but he found an acute pleasure in lingering upon all thedetails of the effect she had upon his nerves. He did not dare move fromhis desk, from the position that put a huge table and a revolving caseof reference books between them. He believed that if he went nearer hewould be unable to resist seizing her in his arms and pouring out thepassion that was playing along his nerves as the delicate, intense flameflits back and forth along the surface of burning alcohol.

  A knock at the door. He plunged into his papers. "Come!" he called.

  Tetlow thrust in his head. Miss Hallowell did not look up. "I'm off,"the head clerk said. His gaze was upon the unconscious girl--a gaze thatfilled Norman with longing to strangle him.

  "Telegraph me from Albany as soon as you get there," said Norman."Telegraph me at my club."

  Tetlow was gone. The machine tapped monotonously on. The barette whichheld the girl's hair at the back was so high that the full beauty of thenape of her neck was revealed. That wonderful white skin with the goldentint! How soft--yet how firm--her flesh looked! How slender yet howstrong was her build----

  "How do you like Tetlow?" he asked, because speak to her he must.

  She glanced up, turned in her chair. He quivered before the gaze fromthose enchanting eyes of hers. "I beg pardon," she said. "I didn'thear."

  "Tetlow--how do you like him?"

&nbs
p; "He is very kind to me--to everyone."

  "How did your father like him?"

  He confidently expected some sign of confusion, but there was no sign."Father was delighted with him," she said merrily. "He took an interestin the work father's doing--and that was enough."

  She was about to turn back to her task. He hastened to ask anotherquestion. "Couldn't I meet your father some time? What Tetlow told meinterested me greatly."

  "Father would be awfully pleased," replied she. "But--unless you reallycare about--biology, I don't think you'd like coming."

  "I'm interested in everything interesting," replied Norman dizzily. Whatwas he saying? What was he doing? What folly was his madness plunginghim into?

  "You can come with Mr. Tetlow when he gets back."

  "I'd prefer to talk with him alone," said Norman. "Perhaps I might seesome way to be of service to him."

  Her expression was vividly different from what it had been when heoffered to help _her_. She became radiant with happiness. "I do hopeyou'll come," she said--her voice very low and sweet, in the effort shewas making to restrain yet express her feelings.

  "When? This evening?"

  "He's always at home."

  "You'll be there?"

  "I'm always there, too. We have no friends. It's not easy to makeacquaintances in the East--congenial acquaintances."

  "I'd want you to be there," he explained with great care, "because youcould help him and me in getting acquainted."

  "Oh, he'll talk freely--to anyone. He talks only the one subject. Henever thinks of anything else."

  She was resting her crossed arms on the back of her chair and, with herchin upon them, was looking at him--a childlike pose and a childlikeexpression. He said: "You are _sure_ you are twenty?"

  She smiled gayly. "Nearly twenty-one."

  "Old enough to be in love."

  She lifted her head and laughed. She had charming white teeth--small andsharp and with enough irregularity to carry out her general suggestionof variability. "Yes, I shall like that, when it comes," she said; "Butthe chances are against it just now."

  "There's Tetlow."

  She was much amused. "Oh, he's far too old and serious."

  Norman felt depressed. "Why, he's only thirty-five."

  "But I'm not twenty-one," she reminded him. "I'd want some one of my ownage. I'm tired of being so solemn. If I had love, I'd expect it tochange all that."

  Evidently a forlorn and foolish person--and doubtless thinking of him,two years the senior of Tetlow and far more serious, as an elderlyperson, in the same class with her father. "But you like biology?" hesaid. The way to a cure was to make her talk on.

  "I don't know anything about it," said she, looking as frivolous as abutterfly or a breeze-bobbed blossom. "I listen to father, but it's allbeyond me."

  Yes--a light-weight. They could have nothing in common. She was a meresurface--a thrillingly beautiful surface, but not a full-fledged woman.So little did conversation with him interest her, she had takenadvantage of the short pause to resume her work. No, she had not thefaintest interest in him. It wasn't a trick of coquetry; it was genuine.He whom women had always bowed before was unable to arouse in her aspark of interest. She cared neither for what he had nor for what hewas, in himself. This offended and wounded him. He struggled sulkilywith his papers for half an hour. Then he fell to watching her againand----

  "You must not neglect to give me your address," he said. "Write it on aslip of paper after you finish. I might forget it."

  "Very well," she replied, but did not turn round.

  "Why, do you think, did Tetlow come to see you?" he asked. He feltcheapened in his own eyes--he, the great man, the arrived man, thefiance of Josephine Burroughs, engaged in this halting and sneakingflirtation! But he could not restrain himself.

  She turned to answer. "Mr. Tetlow works very hard and has few friends.He had heard of my father and wanted to meet him--just like you."

  "Naturally," murmured Norman, in confusion. "I thought--perhaps--he wasinterested in _you_."

  She laughed outright--and he had an entrancing view of the clean rosyinterior of her mouth. "In _me_?--Mr. Tetlow? Why, he's too serious andimportant for a girl like me."

  "Then he bored you?"

  "Oh, no. I like him. He is a good man--thoroughly good."

  This pleased Norman immensely. It may be fine to be good, but to becalled good--that is somehow a different matter. It removes a man atonce from the jealousy-provoking class. "Good exactly describes him,"said Norman. "He wouldn't harm a fly. In love he'd be ridiculous."

  "Not with a woman of his own age and kind," protested she. "But I'mneglecting my work."

  And she returned to it with a resolute manner that made him ashamed tointerrupt again--especially after the unconscious savage rebukes she hadadministered. He sat there fighting against the impulse to watchher--denouncing himself--appealing to pride, to shame, to prudence--tohis love for Josephine--to the sense of decency that restrains a hunterfrom aiming at a harmless tame song bird. But all in vain. Heconcentrated upon her at last, stared miserably at her, filled withlonging and dread and shame--and longing, and yet more longing.

  When she finished and stood at the other side of the desk, waiting forhim to pass upon her work, she must have thought he was in a profoundabstraction. He did not speak, made a slight motion with his hand toindicate that she was to go. Shut in alone, he buried his face in hisarms. "What madness!" he groaned. "If I loved her, there'd be someexcuse for me. But I don't. I couldn't. Yet I seem ready to ruineverything, merely to gratify a selfish whim--an insane whim."

  On top of the papers she had left he saw a separate slip. He drew ittoward him, spread it out before him. Her address. An unknown street inJersey City!

  "I'll not go," he said aloud, pushing the slip away. Go? Certainly not.He had never really meant to go. He would, of course, keep hisengagement with Josephine. "And I'll not come down town until she hastaken another job and has caught Tetlow. I'll stop this idiocy of tryingto make an impression on a person not worth impressing. What weakvanity--to be piqued by this girl's lack of interest!"

  Nevertheless--he at six o'clock telephoned to the Burroughs' house thathe was detained down town. He sent away his motor, dined alone in thestation restaurant in Jersey City. And at half past seven he set out ina cab in search of--what? He did not dare answer that interrogation.