She did not sleep the rest of the night. She rolled and tossed in her bed, and walked the floor.
In the morning she went straight to Mr. Corey and told him what she had done. His seriousness as he frowned, and pulled at his moustache confirmed her worst fears. He made no comment; asked a few questions; there was nothing more. Jeannette went on talking volubly, at times incoherently, for the first time in all the years she had been his secretary, trying to justify herself. Suddenly a rush of tears blinded her; she tried to check them; it was useless.
“Well, well, well, Miss Sturgis,” Corey said consolingly patting her folded hands. “You mustn’t take it so hard. It’s not such a serious matter. You’re making too much of it. I guess I can square it for both of us.”
He drew a sheet of hotel paper toward him and scribbled a couple of lines with his fountain pen.
“Here,” he said, shoving it towards her. “Send her this telegram and see how it works.”
Jeannette read what he had written through blurred vision.
“Dear Rachael, Miss Sturgis has shown me your wire of yesterday. I agree with her that it would be a mistake for you to join me just at present. Am writing you. Much love.
Chandler.”
The girl looked up at him with swimming eyes. Impulsively she caught his hand; his generosity overwhelmed her; in a moment she had pressed the hand to her lips.