“What do you want?” he snarled.
The door opened and Anice Lanier came in. She was very pretty and dainty and young, in her simple white morning frock. She carried a set of tablets whereon it was her custom to transcribe notes of Caleb’s morning instructions for reference or for later amplification by his two stenographers.
“Well!” roared Conover, glowering across the room at her, “what in hell do you want?”
“To tender my resignation,” was the unruffled reply.
“Your what?” he gasped, stupidly.
“My resignation,” in the same level, impersonal tones. “To take effect at once. Good morning.”
She was half-way out of the room before her employer could hurry after and detain her.
“What’s—what’s the meaning of this?” asked Caleb, the brutal belligerency trailing out of his voice. Then, before she could answer, he added: “Because I spoke like that just now? Was that it? Because I said—And you’d throw over a good job just because of a few cranky words? Yes, I believe you would. You’d do it. It isn’t a bluff. Maybe that’s why you make such a hit with me, Miss Lanier. You’re not scared every time I open my mouth. And you stand up for yourself.”
He eyed her in a quizzically admiring fashion, as one might a beautiful but unclassified natural history specimen. She made no reply, but stood waiting in patience for him to move from between her and the door.
Caleb grinned.