He was hopelessly distraught and his face appeared no less
pallid in daylight than in the electric glare in which Rose had found
him. As the girl warmed her hands at the radiator in the reception room
the telephone chimed cheerily. The telephone provides a welcome
companionship for the office girl: its importunities and insolences are
at once her delight and despair. Rose took down the receiver with
relief. She parleyed guardedly with an unseen questioner and addressed
Harwood from the door in the cautious, apologetic tone with which wise
office girls break in upon the meditations of their employers.
"Pardon me, Mr. Harwood. Shall I say you're engaged. It's Mr. Thatcher."
Dan half-turned and replied with a tameness Rose had not expected.
"Say what you please, Rose; only I don't want to talk to him or see him,
or anybody."
The clock in the court-house tower boomed nine sombrely. Dan distrusted
its accuracy as he distrusted everything in the world that morning. He
walked listlessly to the window and compared the face of the clock with
his watch. He had thought it must be noon; but the hour of the day did
not matter greatly.
"It's all right," said Rose meekly from the door. "I told him you were
probably at the State House."
"Whom? Oh, thank you, Rose." And then, as though to ease her conscience
for this mild mendacity, he added: "I believe I did have an engagement
over there at nine.
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