The Wall Street Girl. Bartlett Frederick Orin
Don, you must practice with me some of the new steps. You’ll get very rusty if you don’t.”
“I’d rather hear you sing,” he ventured.
“This is much more important,” she replied.
She placed a Maxixe record on the Victrola that stood by the piano; then she held out her arms to him.
“Poor old hard-working Don!” she laughed as he rose.
It was true that it was as poor old hard-working Don he moved toward her. But there was magic in her lithe young body; there was magic in her warm hand; there was magic in her swimming eyes. As he fell into the rhythm of the music and breathed the incense of her hair, he was whirled into another world–a world of laughter and melody and care-free fairies. But the two most beautiful fairies of all were her two beautiful eyes, which urged him to dance faster and faster, and which left him in the end stooping, with short breaths, above her upturned lips.
CHAPTER VII
ROSES
When Miss Winthrop changed her mind and consented not to seek a new luncheon place, she was taking a chance, and she knew it. If ever Blake heard of the new arrangement,–and he was sure to hear of it if any one ever saw her there with Don,–she was fully aware how he would interpret it to the whole office.
She was taking a chance, and she knew it–knew it with a curious sense of elation. She was taking a chance for him. This hour at noon was the only opportunity she had of talking to Don. If she let that pass, then she could do nothing more for him. She must stand back and watch him go his own way, as others had gone their way.
For one thing was certain: she could allow no further conversations in the office. She had been forced to stop those, and had warned him that he must not speak to her again there except on business, and that he must not sit at Powers’s desk and watch her at work. When he had challenged her for a reason, she had blushed; then she had replied simply:–
“It isn’t business.”
So, when on Saturday morning Don came in heavy-eyed for lack of sleep after the Moore dance, she merely looked up and nodded and went on with her work. But she studied him a dozen times when he did not know she was studying him, and frowned every time he suppressed, with difficulty, a yawn. He appeared tired–dead tired.
For the first time in months she found herself looking forward to the noon hour. She glanced at her watch at eleven-thirty, at eleven-forty-five, and again at five minutes before twelve.
To-day she reserved a seat for him in the little lunch-room. But at fifteen minutes past twelve, when Don usually strode in the door, he had not come. At twenty minutes past he had not come. If he did not come in another five minutes she resolved to make no further effort to keep his place–either to-day or at any future time. At first she was irritated; then she was worried. It was possible he was lunching with Blake. If he began that–well, she would be freed of all further responsibility, for one thing. But at this point Don entered. He made no apologies for having kept her waiting, but deposited in the empty chair, as he went off for his sandwich and coffee, a long, narrow box done up in white paper. She gave him time to eat a portion of his lunch before she asked:–
“Out late again last night?”
“Went to a dance,” he nodded.
She was relieved to hear that. It was a better excuse than some, but still it was not a justifiable excuse for a man who needed all his energies.
“You didn’t get enough sleep, then.”
“I should say not,” Don admitted cheerfully. “In bed at four and up at seven.”
“You look it.”
“And I feel it.”
“You can’t keep that up long.”
“Sunday’s coming, and I’m going to sleep all day,” he declared.
“But what’s the use of getting into that condition?” she inquired.
He thought a moment.
“Well, I don’t suppose a man can cut off everything just because he’s in business.”
“That’s part of the business–at the beginning,” she returned.
“To work all the time?”
“To work all the time,” she nodded. “I wish I had your chance.”
“My chance to work?” he laughed.
“Your chance to get ahead,” she answered. “It’s all so easy–for a man!”
“Easy?”
“You don’t have to do anything but keep straight and keep at work. You ought to have taken those circulars home with you last night and learned them by heart.”
“I’ve read ’em. But, hang it all, they don’t mean anything.”
“Then find out what they mean. Keep at it until you do find out. The firm isn’t going to pay you for what you don’t know.”
“But last night–well, a man has to get around a little bit.”
“Around where?” she questioned him.
“Among his friends. Doesn’t he?”
She hesitated.
“It seems to me you’ll have to choose between dances and business.”
“Eh?”
She nodded.
“Between dances and business. I tell you, this next six months is going to count a lot on how you make good with Farnsworth.”
“Well, he isn’t the only one,” he said.
“He’s the only one in this office–I know what I’m talking about.”
“But outside the office–”
She put down her fork.
“I don’t know why I’m mixing up in your business,” she declared earnestly. “Except that I’ve been here three years now, and have seen men come and go. Every time they’ve gone it has been clear as daylight why they went. Farnsworth is square. He hasn’t much heart in him, but he’s square. And he has eyes in the back of his head.”
She raised her own eyes and looked swiftly about the room as if she half-expected to discover him here.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired.
She did not answer his question, but as she ran on again she lowered her voice:–
“You’ve been in his office to-day?”
“He gave me some more circulars,” Don admitted.
“Then you’d better believe he knew you didn’t get to bed last night until 4 a.m. And you’d better believe he has tucked that away in his mind somewhere.”
Don appeared worried.
“He didn’t say anything.”
“No, he didn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything until he has a whole collection of those little things. Even then he doesn’t say much; but what he does say–counts.”
“You don’t think he’s getting ready to fire me?” he asked anxiously.
“He’s always getting ready,” she answered. “He’s always getting ready to fire or advance you. That’s the point,” she went on more earnestly. “What I don’t understand is why the men who come in here aren’t getting ready too. I don’t see why they don’t play the game. I might stay with the firm twenty years and I’d still be pounding a typewriter. But you–”
She raised her eyes to his. She saw that Don’s had grown less dull, and her own warmed with this initial success.
“You used to play football, didn’t you?” she asked.
“A little.”
“Then you