She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with pretended caution, then stooped to her ear.
“Hoots, lassie!” he whispered, with a solemn wink.
“Stefan will never believe this!” she said, bubbling with laughter.
At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, assumed its erstwhile weightiness.
“Never mind!” he held up an admonishing forefinger. “I do the talking. What do you know about business? Nothing!” His hand swept away possible objections. “I know your work.” She gasped, but the finger was up again, solemnly wagging. “And I say it's good. How many words?” he half snapped.
“Three thousand five hundred,” she answered.
“Then I say, two hundred dollars—not a cent less—and what I say goes, see?” The finger shot out at her, menacing.
“I leave it to you, Mr. McEwan,” she answered meekly, and followed him to the lift, dazed. “This,” she said to herself, “simply is not happening!” She felt like Alice in Wonderland.
They shot up many stories, and emerged into a large office furnished with a switch-board, benches, tables, desks, pictures, and office boys. A ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot partition; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum; all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering over the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the operator's eyes from their multiple distractions. “Good morning, Mr. McEwan—Spring one-O-two-four,” she greeted him.
“'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday,” he economized.