Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up.
This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was
good.
"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested
Buck.
Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never
grow up."
"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma."
"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to
show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers."
They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney
made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an
energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still
working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still
surrounded by papers, samples, models.
"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?"
Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her
eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of
weariness.
"T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty
flat like a hickory nut in a barrel."
"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater."
"No use. I'll have to go home sometime."
"Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think
of all the years you got along without him.
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