The only difference was that I always played
fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance."
"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--"
"That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is
fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then,
turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of
the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?"
"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's
foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People
don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men
to jolly up the trade."
"Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?"
It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney
had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played
mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office
refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work
with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business.
To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about
with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and
followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that
was more insulting than downright inattention.
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