“I beg pardon,” said Ames, hesitating in the doorway.
The girl glanced up quickly. “Oh, come in,” she said. “I was expecting you.”
He entered and took the chair indicated. “You don’t mind if I finish this article, do you?” she said, bending again to her work. “It’s got to go to the compositors right away.”
“Certainly––don’t stop,” replied Ames easily. “When we talk I want your undivided attention.”
“Oh, you’re sure to get it,” she returned, laughing. And Ames wondered just what she meant.
He sat back in his chair and watched her closely. How wondrous fair she was! Yet, there was just a slight tint in her skin, he thought. Perhaps the report that she was a mulatto was not wholly unfounded, although the strain must have been greatly mixed. How simply she was dressed. He remembered her in her beautiful ball gown. He thought he preferred this. How rapidly her fingers sped over the keys. And what fingers! What a hand! He wanted to bend over and take it in his own. Then he suddenly remembered what the Beaubien had once told him––that she always seemed to be a better woman in this girl’s presence. But––what changes had come since then! Could he go on persecuting the harassed woman? But he wouldn’t, if––
“There!” said the girl, with what seemed to be a little sigh of relief. She pressed a button, and handed the typewritten sheets to the boy who responded. Then, turning to Ames:
“You’ve come to apologize, haven’t you? But you needn’t. I’m not a bit offended. I couldn’t be, you know.”
Apologize! Well, he certainly had not had any such intention when he came in. In fact, he knew not just why he was there.