"Good night, Mr. Lowell."
"Good night, Miss Mitchell." He looked up. Anne was the best stenographer he had ever had. In her close-fitting blue tailor suit, with a small blue velvet toque framing the wonderful fairness of her skin, and the smooth, cool gold of her hair, she was exceedingly pretty—prettier than John Lowell had ever noticed. With Roger Barton out of the way——
"If you reconsider your decision by morning, I won't remember it," he said with a smile that she alone among his stenographers had escaped so long.
"I shall not reconsider, Mr. Lowell." Anne spoke with a stiff primness that instantly dispelled his new interest.
"Very well. Your check will be sent you at the end of the week, as usual."
"This is only Wednesday."
"That's all right. You've often given overtime."
"Until Wednesday, if you please," Anne said quietly and wanted to cry. Four days would mean nothing to John Lowell; much to her.
"Very well." He picked up his pen and Anne went out.
She heard Roger Barton's voice as she passed his door and hurried on to the elevator. Down in the street, the home-going crowds flowed by. Anne's eyes filled with tears and she nibbled her lip to keep them back. Then she joined the northward current and walked quickly away.