"Very well."
The Friday Committee groaned with relief, pushed back the chairs, and gradually rustled away.
Jean washed her hands and changed to the clean blouse that she kept for emergencies. She had just finished when the elevator stopped, the outer door opened and Gregory crossed to the private office. Jean opened the door before he knocked, and they stood for a moment, one on each side of the threshold.
"My, but it's good to get back. You look ripping."
Every pulse in Jean answered so suddenly and unexpectedly to the clasp of his fingers, that she almost lost the non-committal greeting flitting in her brain.
"So do you, and I don't believe a word about the Star of Bethlehem."
"Well, it's true, whether you believe it or not. A heavily-powered arc-light right on top."
Jean withdrew her hands and turned to get her hat from its peg. Gregory watched her. She was extraordinarily strong and cleanly cut for a woman. Every motion she made was firm and carried decision with it, as if from a mass of possibilities she chose that particular thing and nothing else.
"All right, I'll believe it. After all it's not more extraordinary than what we accomplished. You're not the only one with news."
"Is Fenninger still alive? Or did he make his will in your favor and die of indigestion?"