“Mr. Ames,” she said, “you have no ideals. No man who amasses millions by taking advantage of the world’s inhuman 113 and pernicious social system can have ideals worthy of the name. To apply your methods, your thought, to the Express would result in sinking its moral tone into the dust. As for your money––”
“Commit suicide, then!” cried the man, yielding to his rising anger. “Let the Express go down, carrying you and your spineless associates with it! But, remember, you will be the sole cause of its ruin, and theirs!”
Carmen rose quietly and opened the office door. “Your half hour is up, Mr. Ames,” she said, glancing at the little clock on her desk; “and I must return to my work.”
For a moment the huge man stood looking down darkling upon the girl. He would have given his soul if he could have clasped that slender form in his arms! A sudden impulse assailed him, and bade him fall upon his knees before her, and ask her forgiveness and guidance. She stood waiting––perhaps just for that, and always with that same smile into which no one had ever yet read aught but limitless love.
The telephone bell rang sharply. Carmen hastened to answer the call.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Hitt. Yes––yes––the cotton schedule was reported out quite changed––yes, an hour ago!”
When she looked up, she was alone.
“Dearie,” said the Beaubien at evening, as Carmen seated herself in that woman’s lap and wound her arms about her neck, “I am afraid for you.”
“Well, mother dearest,” replied the girl, giving her a tighter squeeze, “that is a sheer waste of time. If you haven’t anything more to occupy you than fear, you’d better come down to the office, and I’ll set you to work.”