menu_book Chapter 8

Book 1, Chapter 4, Sections 6-10 of Bread. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Wild Shimmering Path. Bread by Charles G. Norris. Book 1, Chapter 4, Sections 6-10.

Her desk, with those of the five other stenographers employed by the publishing company, was located on the floor above the editorial offices. Here were also the circulation and mail order departments. Light entered from three broad front windows, but it was far from sufficient, and thirty electric bulbs under green tin cones suspended by long wire cords

burned throughout the day over the rows of desks and tables that filled the congested loft. At these were some hundred girls and women, and half a dozen men. In the rear, where the daylight failed almost completely to penetrate, the cones of electric radiance flooded the dark recesses brilliantly. Old Hodgson, who was in charge of the outgoing mail, there had his domain, and it was in this quarter that the lumbering freight elevator occasionally made its appearance with a bang and a crash of opening iron doors. Toward the front, near the windows, and separated from the rest by low railings,

were located the desks of Miss Holland and Mr. Max Oppenheim. The former was a tall, thin-faced woman with iron-gray hair and a distinguished voice and manner. Just what her duties were, Jeanette could not guess. She had her own stenographer and was forever dictating, or going downstairs with sheaves of letters in her hands for conferences with Mr. Kipps.

Oppenheim was the circulation manager. He was a Jew, intelligent and shrewd, with a pallor so pronounced it seemed unhealthy, further emphasized by a thick mop of coal-black, glistening hair that swept straight back without a parting from his smooth white forehead. Jeanette thought she recognized in him a type to be avoided, but she never saw anything either in his manner toward her or the other girls at which to take

exception. There was one other individual in the room who had a department to herself. This was a chubby, bespeckled lady with an unpronounceable German name who presided over a huddle of desks and conducted the mail-order department. No one ever seemed to have anything to say to her, nor did she in turn appear to have anything to say to anyone.

She plodded on with her work, unmolested, lost sight of. Sometimes Jeanette suspected that Mr. Corey and Mr. Kipps and the other men downstairs had forgotten the woman's existence. The stenographers with whom she was immediately and intimately thrown were distinctly of a better class than the girls who had been her associates

in the Soleil Publishing Company. Miss Foster was red-headed and given to shouts of infectious mirth. Miss Lopez was Spanish, pretty and charming. Miss Bixby was a trifle hoydenish but good-natured, and Miss Pratt was frankly an old maid,

for whom life had been obviously a hard and devastating struggle. There remained Miss Lafarge, who Jeanette suspected was not of the world of decent women. Her beribboned lingerie was clearly discernible through her sheer and transparent shirtwaists, and she was given to rouge, lavish powdering, and strong scent. The first day in her new position was as difficult as Jeanette anticipated.

She knew she gave the impression of being cold and condescending, but her shyness would not permit her to unbend. The girls were politely distant with her at first, but Jeanette was fully aware that each and every one of them was alive to her presence, and everything they did and said was for her benefit. She made an early friend of Miss Holland. The tall woman stopped at her desk in passing, smiled pleasantly at her, and asked if everything was going all right.

Something of quality, of good breeding in the older woman's face, brought the girl to her feet, and it was this trifling act of courtesy that won Miss Holland's approval and favour, which Jeanette never was to lose. There were plenty of girls scattered among the tables, where the business of folding circulars, addressing envelopes, and writing cards went on, who were of the high-heeled, pompadoured, sallow-skinned variety, with which Jeanette

was already familiar, but these persons came and went with the work. Few of them were regular employees. When a stenographer was needed in the editorial department, a buzzer sounded upstairs, and the girl next in order answered the summons. Miss Foster usually took Mr. Corey's dictation, and also that of his secretary, Mr. Smith, but the other girls went from Mr. Featherstone to Mr. Kipps to Miss Rubens, and to the rest as they were required. Mr. Kipps sent especially for

Jeanette on her first morning. She was nervous, and her pencil trembled a little as she scribbled down her notes. She found his dictation extremely difficult to take. He hesitated, paused a long time to think of the word he wanted, corrected himself, asked her to repeat what he had said, or to scratch out what she had written, and to go back and read her notes to a point where he could recommence. But he seemed pleased when she brought him the finished letters.

Very good, Miss Sturgis. Very good indeed, he said without enthusiasm, tapping his pursed lips with the tip of his penholder as he scanned her work. She was jubilant. She looked for Roy.

She was eager to tell him what Mr. Kipps had said. But he was not at his desk as she passed through the advertising department, nor was he waiting for her, as she hoped, when five o'clock came and she started home. Well, she was satisfied.

She had gotten just what she wanted. She would soon make herself indispensable. Mr. Kipps was really a lovely man, although one would never suspect it from his nervous manner. She felt a sudden assurance she was going to be very happy. Roy found her again in her sweetest, kindest mood that evening.

They began at once to discuss everyone in the entire organization of the company, from the president himself down to Bertram, the little Jew office boy who was inclined to be fresh. The publishing house had suddenly become their entire world, and everyone in it was either friend or foe. I hope I make good, sighed Jeanette. Make good, repeated her lover indignantly.

Of course you'll make good. Don't I know how good you are? Why say, Janney dear, you've got that bunch of girls skinned a mile. It was soon evident to Jeanette that Roy was right. The next day she made a point of glancing at some of Miss Foster's and Miss Lopez's letters. She noted two errors in the formers, and the letters were rubbed and full of erasures.

The letters themselves were poorly spaced, and the sheets in several instances were far from being clean. She was genuinely shocked at such slovenliness. They would not have tolerated it at the school for a minute. The girls who had been with her under Beardsley had done better work than that. She paused over the thought and smiled.

It was funny now to think of dear old Roy as the Mr. Beardsley who had once filled her with such awe, and in fear of whose displeasure she had actually trembled. Her satisfaction with her new position found utter completeness, when on her first Saturday morning her pay envelope reached her, and she discovered she was to receive fifteen dollars a week.

It was the last drop in her felicity. She flung herself into her work with all the eagerness of an intense young nature. In turn, she took dictation from Mr. Featherstone, Miss Rubens, Mr. Olmsted, the auditor, and young Mr. Cavendish, who edited Corey's commentary. Everyone seemed to like her. Miss Rubens, having tried the new stenographer thereafter, invariably asked for her,

and while this was gratifying in its way, Jeanette would have willingly forgone the distinction. Miss Rubens was not a pleasing personality for whom to work. She referred to Jeanette as the new girl, treated her like a machine, and kept her sitting idly beside her desk while she sorted papers or carried on long conversations at the telephone. She was a high-strung, perpetually agitated person, given to complaining a great deal,

undoubtedly overworked, but finding consolation in pitying herself and in bemoaning her hard lot. Jeanette recognized in her the lady with the twisted, sour mouth who had been inspecting photographs the day she first came to the office. Mr. Olmsted the auditor was a tiresome old man who teetered on his toes when he talked and tapped his thumbnail with the rim of his eyeglasses to emphasize his words. He took a tedious time over his dictation and Jeanette had to shut her

lips tightly to keep from prompting him. Mr. Cavendish, on the other hand, was charming. He was about thirty-three, or four, Jeanette judged, handsome, with thick, very dark red hair, and a thick, dark red mustache. He was always very courteous, and had an ever-ready stock of pleasantries. She was aware that he admired her, and she could not help feeling self-conscious in his company. They joked together mildly, and their eyes frequently held one another's in amused glances.

Of all the people in the office, she liked best to take dictation from him. He never repeated himself. His sentences were neatly phrased and to the point, and his choice of words she considered beautiful. That he was unmarried did not distract from her interest in him. She read some of the recent back numbers of Corey's commentary, and particularly the editorials, and told Roy she admired them enormously. She was far happier in the environment

of the editorial rooms than upstairs where she worked with the other stenographers in the midst of the bustle, racket, and confusion of the circulation and mail-order departments. She soon discovered she had little in common with Miss Foster or Miss Bixby. Miss Lopez was a pretty non-entity, Miss Pratt an elderly incompetent, and Miss Lafarge a vulgar-lipped grissette. The girls realized she looked down on them and clannishly hung together to talk about

her among themselves. They were not openly rude, but Jeanette was aware she was not popular with them. Miss Holland alone on the first floor attracted her. They smiled at one another whenever their eyes met, and Jeanette enjoyed the feeling that this faded, kindly gentlewoman recognized in her a girl of her own class. There were a dozen other personalities in the company that the new stenographer learned to know and with whom she came more or less into contact.

Important among these was Mr. Corey's secretary, Mr. Smith, whom nobody liked. He was suspected of being a tale-bearer, an informant who tattled inconsequences to his chief. He was obviously a toady, and treated everyone in the office not a member of the firm with an air of great condescension. Mrs. Charlotte Innes of the book department was a regal, grey-haired personage, with many floating draperies that were ever trailing magnificently behind her as she came and went. Miss Travers,

who was cooped up all day behind the wire grilling of the cashier's cage, was a waspish, merry individual, and although sometimes common, even vulgar, was both friendly and amusing. Francis Holm and Van Alstine spent most of their time on the road visiting book dealers. Van Alstine was English and inclined to be patronizing, but Holm was large-toothed, large-mouthed, and big-eared, bluff and frank, noisy and good-hearted, and there was also Mr.

Cavendish's assistant, Horatio Stevens, a tall, rangy young man with rather a dreamy, detached heir, with whom Roy shared a room at his boarding house. Jeanette found him vaguely repellent. There was something about his long skinny hands and drooping eyelids that made her creepy. And then there was Mr. Corey himself. Chandler B. Corey was, as Roy had described him, a man of vivid personality. Although not yet in his fifties, he had a full head of silky white hair.

In sharp contrast to this were his black bushy eyebrows and his black mustache, dash, which curled gracefully at the ends and which he had a habit of pulling whenever he was thinking hard. His skin was pink and clear as a boy's, but there was nothing effeminate in his face with its heavy square jaw. There was a dynamic quality about him that communicated itself to everyone who came in contact with him, and yet with all his energy and fire,

Jeanette noted there was an extraordinary gentleness about him, somewhat suggesting sadness. On a day toward the end of her third week, she took a long and important letter from him. Miss Foster was struggling with a pile of other work he had already given her, and Mr. Smith sent Bertram upstairs with a request for Mrs. Sturgis to come down. She had never been in Mr. Corey's office before. At once she was struck with its quality. Compared with the noisy ruggedness

and bare floors outside. It was quiet, luxurious, sectional bookcases filled to overflowing, and many autographed framed photographs, lined walls that were covered with burlap. There were one or two large leather armchairs, and in the center a great flat-topped desk heaped with manuscripts and stacks of clipped papers. A film of dust lay over many of these, and the scent of cigar smoke was in the air. Mr. Corey's silvery head beyond the desk appeared as a

startling blot of white against the background of warm brown. She was surprised to discover how tersely he dictated. There was nothing of a literary quality about his sentences, nothing savoring of the polish of Mr. Cavendish. He was all business and dispatch. She felt oddly sorry for him. More than once during the brief quarter of an hour that she was with him, a great sympathy for him came over her. He seemed weighed down with responsibilities. A paper mill was

pressing him for money. No funds would be available for another three months. His letter offered them his note for ninety days. While he dictated, the telephone interrupted him. Something had gone wrong with the lenotype machines, and the delay would result in the Wheel of Fortune being two or three days late on the newsstands. In the midst of this conversation, Mr. Featherstone came in to report that Shreve and Baker had cancelled their advertisement and had definitely refused to

renew it. An army of annoyances pressed around on every side. She told Roy about it when he came to see her that night. Oh, CB's a wonder, he agreed. He carries that whole concern on his shoulders, and you can rest assured there's nothing goes on down there that he doesn't know. They all depend on him. He seems so overburdened and so, so harassed, Jeanette said. I guess he's all of that. You know, he's had an awful hard time getting a start.

The business is just about able to stand on its own feet now. I don't think Mr. Smith is much help to him. He could save him a whole lot if he would. Oh, that fish? He's no good. He told CB a most outrageous lie about Mr. Featherstone. There was an awful row. Then why doesn't Mr. Featherstone have him discharged?

Nobody's got anything to say down there except Mr. Corey. He owns 51% of the stock, I understand, and if he likes Smith, Smith is going to stay. I can't see how Mr. Corey can put up with him. How did CB like your work? I don't know. Mr. Smith took it when I brought it downstairs and carried it into him.

I didn't hear a word, but he didn't send it back to me for anything. He was pleased all right. You've made a hit with everyone. They're all crazy about you. Miss Rubens always wants you, and Cavendish, I notice, seems to take a special interest in his dictation now. The last was said with an amused scrutiny of her face.

Oh, don't be silly, Roy. I'm not, he declared sensibly. I don't care if he admires you. Men are always going to do that. Holm asked me the other day who the new queen was,

and I was mighty proud to tell him you were my fiancé. I guess I appreciate the fact that the smartest, loveliest girl in the world is going to be my wife. Oh, don't, Jeanette repeated. There was trouble in her face. Her days were packed full of interest now. She enjoyed every moment of the time spent within the shabby portals of the publishing house.

The rest of the twenty-four hours were given to happy anticipation of new experiences awaiting her, or in pleasant retrospective happenings that marked her advancement. For it was clear to her she was progressing, daily tightening her hold upon her job, making the big people like her, bringing herself nearer and nearer the goal she someday eagerly hoped to reach, of being indispensable to these delightful new employers. To what end this tended, how far it would carry her, under what circumstances she would achieve final success she could not surmise.

She was conscious these days only of an intense satisfaction, a delight in knowing she was steadily, though blindly, attaining her ambition. Often she wished during these early weeks she had a dozen pairs of hands that she might take everyone's dictation and type all the letters that left the office. she became interested in the subject and purpose of these letters. Cavendish wrote an urgent note

to a Mr. David Russell Purrington, who was a regular contributor to Corey's commentary from Washington, telling him how extremely important it was, in connection with a certain article shortly to appear in the magazine, for him to obtain an exclusive interview on the subject with the Japanese Plenipotentiary, at that time visiting the capital. Miss Rubens fretted and murmured complainingly as she worded a communication to Lester Short, the author, explaining that it was

impossible for the Wheel of Fortune to pay the price he asked for his story, The Broken Jade. Mr. Kipps, through her, informed the Typographical Union No. 63 that under no condition would the Chandler B. Corey Company re-employ Timothy Convoy, and that if the union persisted, the publishing company was prepared to declare for an open shop. Mrs. Innes confided to her hand an enthusiastic memorandum to Mr. Corey, urging him to accept and publish at once a novel called

The Honorable Estate by a new writer, Homer Deering, which she declared was of the most sensational nature. But after typing these letters and memorandums, Jeanette heard nothing more of them. She wanted to know whether or not Mr. David Russell Purrington succeeded in obtaining the much-desired interview, what Lester Short decided to do about the $75 Miss Rubens offered, how the Typographical Union No. 63 replied to Mr. Kipps's ultimatum, and if Mr. Corey accepted Homer Deering's

significant manuscript. Her curiosity was seldom gratified. She hardly ever saw the replies to the letters she had typed with such interest. Miss Foster, Miss Lopez, Miss Pratt, Miss Bixby, or Miss Lafarge continued the correspondence. Often she would see a letter unwinding itself from a neighboring machine at the top of which she would recognize a familiar name, but she had no time to read further, and there was a certain restraint observed among the girls

about overlooking one another's work. Jeanette realized she was merely a small cog in a machine and that her prejudices, enthusiasms, her interest, and opinion were of small consequence to anyone. She rose early in the morning, sometimes at five, and her mother would hear her thumping and pounding with an iron in the kitchen as she pressed a shirtwaist to wear fresh to the office, or clitter-clattering in the bathroom as she polished her shoes or washed stockings.

Her costume was invariably neat and smart, but she dressed soberly, with knowing effectiveness for her working day. Her mother, yawning sleepily or frowning in mild distress, would find her getting her own breakfast at seven. Why, dearie, she would plaintively remonstrate, whatever do you want to bother with the stove for? I'm going to get your breakfast, you leave that to me. I don't see, she might add querulously

Why you have to get up at such unearthly hours Alice would shortly make her appearance and with wrappers trailing, slippers clapping and shuffling about the kitchen her mother and sister would complete the simple preparations for her morning meal and set about getting their own

About the time they had borne in the smoking granite coffee pot again to the dining room and had hunched up their chairs to the table Jeanette would be ready to leave the house. When she came to kiss them goodbye, she would always find them there, her mother's cheek, soft and warm, Alice's firm hard face, cool and smelling faintly of soap. She would seem so vigorously alive as she left them, so confident and capable.

There was always a tremendous satisfaction in feeling well-dressed, well-prepared and early started for her day's work. As she left the house and filled her lungs with the first breath of sharp morning air, there would come a tug of excitement at the prospect of the hours ahead. She loved the trip downtown on the bumping, whirring elevated. She loved the close contact with fellow passengers, wage earners like herself. She loved the brisk walk along 17th Street and

across the leaf-strewn square, where she faced the tide of clerks and office workers that poured steadily out of the ghetto and Lower East Side, and set itself toward the great tall buildings of Lower Fifth Avenue and Broadway, and she loved the first glimpse of the gold sign of the Chandler B. Corey Company, with the feeling that she belonged there and was one of its employees. She would be at her desk half to three quarters of an hour ahead of the other girls. There would

usually be work left over from the previous day. She liked settling herself for the busy hours to come when no one was around, and she could do so with comfort. She would hardly be conscious of the other girls' arrival, and would often greet them with a smiling good morning, or answer their questions with no recollection afterwards of having done so. The whirlwind of office demands and the tide of work would soon be about her. Miss Rubens wanted her, Mr. Kipps rang for a

stenographer, Mr. Featherstone had an important letter to get off before he went out. Would Miss Sturgis look up that letter to the Glenardsdale agency? Would Miss Sturgis come down when she was free. Mr. Cavendish had an article he wanted to copy as soon as possible. Miss Bixby was busy. Miss Foster was busy. Miss Lopez, Miss Pratt, Miss Lafarge were busy. Miss Sturgis was busiest of all. She thrilled to the rush and fury of her days. There was never a let-up, never a lull. There

was always more and more work piling up. At noon, at twelve-thirty, at one, whenever she was free for a moment about that time, she would slip out for lunch. She had learned she must eat, eat something, no matter how little, in the middle of the day. She still patronized the soda and candy counter in the big rotunda of Siegel Cooper's mammoth department store for her china cup of coffee and two saltine crackers. Sometimes she spent another nickel for a bag of peanut

brittle. Somewhere she had read that the sugar in the candy and the starch in the peanuts contained a high percentage of nutritious value. She nibbled out of the bag on her way back to the office. She would be gone hardly more than half the hour she was allowed for luncheon. Between one and three in the afternoon was the time she was least interrupted, and in this interval her fingers flew, and letter after letter slipped beneath its properly addressed envelope, would steadily

augment the pile in the wire basket that stood beside her machine. She rejoiced when it grew so tall the stack was in danger of falling out. In the late afternoon came the rush and the most exacting demands. Miss Rubens had a letter that must go off that night without fail. Mr. Featherstone had just returned from a conference with a big advertiser and wanted a record of the agreement typed at once. Mr. Kipps had a communication to be instantly dispatched. Mr. Corey needed a

stenographer. The girls were all busy. They had too much to do already. They could not finish half the letters that had been given them. Well, how about Miss Sturgis? Could Miss Sturgis manage to get out just one more? It was so important. Yes, Miss Sturgis could. Of course she could. It might be late, but if the writer would remain to sign in, she'd manage to finish it somehow. You're a fool, Miss Bixby said to her one day sourly. Nobody's going to thank you for it.

You don't get paid a cent more. I don't see why you want to make a beast of burden out of yourself. They just use you like a sponge in this office, squeeze every ounce of strength out of you, and then throw you away. Look at Linda Harris! Linda Harris was the girl who had sickened, and whose place Jeanette now filled. Perhaps Miss Bixby was right, Jeanette would say to herself, riding home after six, and sometimes after seven o'clock on the lurching train,

tired to the point where her muscles ached and her sight was blurred. But there was something in her that rose vigorously to this battle of work, that made her reach down and ever deeper down inside herself for new strength and new capacity. Wearily, her hand dragging on the stair rail, she would pull herself step by step up the long flights to the top floor. Tired though she might be, her mind would still be buzzing with the events of the day. Mr. Cavendish's

letter to Senator Sulcombe. Had she remembered the enclosures? Mr. Kipps had been short with her, or so he had seemed. Perhaps he had been only vexed at the end of a long day of worry. Mr. Corey's smile at a comment she had ventured was consoling. Then there was that friction between Miss Rubens and Mrs. Innes. They had had some sharp words. She wondered which one of them eventually would triumph. Mrs. Innes, of course, and little Miss Maria Lopez, had confided to her

in the washroom she was going to be married. Hello, dearie! Home again? Jeanette's mother would call to her cheerfully as she pushed open the door. Alice would turn her head with a low, sis! She would kiss them dutifully, perfunctorily. The kitchen would be hot and steamy. The smell of food would make her feel giddy, perhaps faint. She would be ravenously hungry. She would go to her dark little bedroom, light the gas, remove her hat, blouse and skirt,

and stretch herself gratefully on her bed. Would Miss Innes go to Mr. Corey about her difference with Miss Rubens? Miss Holland had had a conference with Mr. Kipps all afternoon. What could it be about? Would Bertram be discharged for losing that manuscript?

Mr. Van Alstine had certainly been unnecessarily curt. She cordially disliked him. And Mr. Smith had most assuredly not given her Mr. Corey's message. Why, she remembered distinctly, Dinner, dearie!

She would drag herself to her feet, rub her face briskly with a wet wash rag, and in her wrapper join her mother and sister at the table. Well, tell us how everything went today, Mrs. Sturgis would say, busy with plates and serving spoon. Oh, about the same as usual, Jeanette would sigh. Bertram, the office boy, lost a manuscript today.

It was terribly important. We were awfully busy upstairs, and Mrs. Innes sent the book out to be typed, and he left the package somewheres. On the streetcar, he thinks, Mr. Kipps will probably fire him. He deserves it. He's awfully fresh. You don't say, Mrs. Sturgis would murmur abstractedly. Drink your tea, dearie, before it gets cold.

Jeanette, dutifully sipping the hot brew, would consider how to tell them of the trouble between Mrs. Innes and Miss Rubens. Miss Rubens, you know, mother, is the editor of the Wheel of Fortune, and Mrs. Charlotte Innes runs our book department. They dislike each other cordially, and I just know someday there's going to be a dreadful row. Alice, dearie, get mother another teacup. Miss Sturgis might interrupt her eye on her older daughter's face to show she was attending. And while you're up, you might glance

in the oven. Yes, dearie, she would say encouragingly to Jeanette. The girl would recommence her story, but she could see it was impossible to arouse their interest. Their attention wandered. They knew none of the people in the office. It was no concern of theirs what happened to them. Kratzmer had the effrontery to charge me thirty cents for a can of peaches today, Mrs. Sturgis would remark. I just told him they were selling for twenty-five on the next

block, and I wouldn't pay it, and he said to me I could choose to take my trade anywhere I chose, and I told him that that was no way to conduct his business, and he as much as told me that it was his business, and he intended to run it the way he liked. I wouldn't stand for such impudence, and I just gave him a piece of my mind. An indignant finger tossing an imaginary ruffle at her throat suggested what had been the little woman's agitated manner.

Kratzmer's awfully obliging, Alice commented mildly. Well, perhaps, but the idea. Mr. Corey was unusually nice to me today, Jeanette remarked. Her mother would smile and nod encouragingly, but her eyes would be inspecting her daughter's plates, considering another helping or whether it was time for dessert.

I couldn't match my braid, Alice would murmur in a disconsolate tone. I went to the woman's bazaar and to Mr. Blake's, and they had nothing like it. I suppose I'll have to go downtown to Macy's. Do you remember, Mother, where you got the first piece? No, I don't, dearie, her mother would reply slowly. Perhaps it was O'Neill and Adams. How much do you need? About three yards. I could manage with two. Do you suppose you'd have time

tomorrow, Janie, to try at Macy's? Maybe. I can't promise. You have no idea how rushed we are sometimes. You know, I have a good mind to try Meyers' place over on Amsterdam. It always seems so clean. Kratzmer's getting too independent. Kratzmer knows us, Mama, and sometimes it's awfully convenient to charge. I know, that's perfectly true. But the idea of his talking to me that way. They might have it at Siegel Cooper's. You could ask there tomorrow. It would only take

you five minutes. I hate to go all the way downtown. And there's the car fare. I've traded with Kratzmer ever since he moved into the block. I guess he forgets I've been a resident in this neighborhood for nearly 13 years. He shouldn't treat me like a casual customer. It's not right and proper. It would be the greatest help if I could get it tomorrow. I'm absolutely at a stand still on that dress until I have it. Siegel's is sure to keep a big stock. I'll give you a sample.

I've always liked the look of things at Myers'. All the Jewesses go there and they always know where to get the best things to eat, but I suppose he is more expensive. It oughtn't to cost more than twenty cents a yard. Do you remember what you paid for it, Mama? Dearie, it's so long ago. I'm sorry. I'd rather hate to break with Kratzmer's after all these years. You can't help but make friends with the tradespeople. Do you think Myers's would really be more high-priced, Janie?

Jeanette would shrug her shoulders and carefully fold her napkin. They were dears. She loved them best of all the world, but they seemed so small and petty with their trifling concerns. matching braids, and disagreeing with tradespeople. The dinner dishes would be cleared away, Jeanette would brush the cloth, put away the salt and pepper shakers, the napkins, and unused cutlery,

then she would carefully fold the tablecloth in its original creases, replace it with the square of chenille curtaining, and climb on a chair to fit the brass hook of the drop light over the gas jet above. Roy would arrive at eight. He was always there promptly, and she would have a bare twenty minutes to get ready.

She would hear her mother and sisters scraping and rattling in the kitchen as she dressed, water hissing in the sink, the bang of the tin dishpan, their voices murmuring. She would be glad when her lover came. A flood of questions, surmises, hazarded opinions about office affairs poured from her then. She was free at last to talk as she liked about what absorbed her so much.

She had an audience that would listen eagerly and attentively to everything. What would Mr. Kipps do about Bertram? And if the manuscript was really lost, what would Mrs. Innes do about it? Did he hear anything about the row between Mrs. Innes and Miss Rubens? Well, she'd tell him, only she wanted first to ask his advice,

about whether she should go to Mr. Corey and simply tell him that Smith had certainly never given her his message. Roy would meet this eager gossip with news of his own. Mr. Featherstone had given Walt Chase an awful call-down for promising a preferred position he had no right to, and Stubbs was starting on a trip to Chicago and St. Louis. There was talk

of putting Francis Holm in charge of the book sales department, and Roy hoped he'd get it instead of Van Alstine. And what did Jeanette think the chances would be of Horatio Stevens getting Miss Rubens' job if Miss Rubens quit on account of Mrs. Innes? Roy would tire eventually of this shop talk. He longed to reach the lovemaking stage of the evening. He was eager to tell her how much he adored her, and to have her confess she cared for him in return. He liked to have her

nestle close against him, his arms about her, to hold her to him, and have her raise her lips to his each time he bent over her. But Jeanette grew less and less inclined these days to surrender herself to these embraces. Each time Roy mentioned love, she would tell him not to be silly, and would speak of another office affair. It distressed her lover. He would fidget unhappily, not quite understanding how she eluded him. Again and again he would return to the question of their

marriage. Did Jeanette think March would be a good month? It was three months off. Yes, March would be all right. But did he suppose Miss Rubens was really overworked? Roy didn't know whether she was or not. She complained a good deal, he admitted. But now, about where they were to live, He had heard of a little house in Flatbush that could be rented for $20 a month. How did she feel about living in Brooklyn?

But marriage did not interest her for the present. She was too much absorbed in the affairs of the publishing company. Weddings could wait, hers could, anyhow. Just now she wanted Roy to help her guess the salaries of everyone in the office. And when, as ten and ten-thirty and eleven o'clock approached,

Roy, conscious of the passing minutes, would press his lovemaking to a point where Jeanette could no longer divert him, she would send him home. She would suddenly remember she had her stockings to wash out or gloves to clean before she went to bed.

She would realize, at the moment, how dreadfully tired she was and how the morrow always presented a difficult day. You must go now, Roy, she would say. You simply must go. I'm dead and I've got to get some sleep. Please say goodnight. Not until you kiss me, he would insist.

Mwah! There, now go. But tell me first you love me. Oh, Roy! No, you must tell me. Why, of course, you know I do.

Lots? Yes, yes. And you'll marry me? Surely. When?

Now, Roy, you must go. I tell you I'm dropping. I'm so tired. But tell me when you'll marry me. Well, whenever we're ready.

You darling, kiss me again. Roy! Kiss me. Oh, kiss me good. Good night.

Good night, you darling. End of Book 1, Chapter 4, Sections 6-10