As she left the scene of her former activities, her progress through the aisles between the desks was once again a succession of hand-clasps, congratulations, well-wishes, nods and smiles. It touched her deeply; she had no idea she had been so well liked: everyone there seemed to be her friend.
Miss Holland joined her at half past twelve in the lobby of the Park Avenue Hotel, and they had a delightful luncheon together at one of the little tables edging the balcony about the court. News was exchanged eagerly. Jeannette’s was scant, but her companion had endless gossip to retail. Miss Holland’s nephew, Jerry Sedgwick, was a midshipman now, and on his summer cruise in Cuban waters aboard a big battleship. She and Mrs. O’Brien had a little apartment down on Waverly Place and managed quite comfortably. The office was getting dreadfully on Miss Holland’s nerves; it was so different from what it used to be; in the old days everyone had done the best that was in him or her to make the business a success; no one had cared what the returns were to be; the idea of doing more and better work had been the thought actuating all. Now that the Corey Company had become one of the largest and most prosperous publishing houses in the country, the spirit had changed; everyone thought about “profits.” They had conferences of all the heads of departments each week and no one was interested in learning what was going on in the different branches of the business; what commanded their attention was how much “profit” was to be shown. It disgusted Miss Holland; there was no “Get Together Club” any more. Mr. Kipps was becoming more and more critical and fault-finding; he had headaches all the time; Miss Holland believed he was a sick man; he never took any exercise. The pattern business had grown enormously; Mr. Cruikshanks had done wonders with it; they had had to lease a whole big building over on Tenth Avenue to take care of it; The Ladies’ Fortune had a circulation of nearly half a million; Horatio Stephens had had a very substantial raise, and had grown awfully opinionated and disagreeable.
There was more gossip of lesser significance. Miss Hoggenheimer of the mailing department had gone on the stage, and had a part now in It Happened in Nordland, while Miss Gleason had married that big George Robinson of the Press Room, and Tommy Livingston would soon be engaged,—if he wasn’t already,—to Mrs. O’Brien’s little sister, Agnes, who worked in the Mail Order Department.... Oh, yes! and had Jeannette heard what had happened to Van Alstyne? It was terrible! He was in the penitentiary at Atlanta for using the United States mail for fraudulent purposes; he had become involved with some unscrupulous men who advertised worthless stock and the Federal authorities had put them all in jail.... And poor Mrs. Inness was dead; she died at her brother’s house in Weehawken.
Jeannette devoured these details. She sat absorbed, fascinated, listening to every word that came from her companion’s lips; she could not get enough of this chatter about her old associates; she was hungry for every scrap of information, fearful that Miss Holland might neglect to tell her everything.
She walked back with her friend to the office and would not let her go for another ten minutes until she had heard the final details of a violent quarrel between Miss Reubens and Mr. Cavendish.
Miss Holland promised to dine with her and Martin soon, and Jeannette promised in return to come with her husband to dinner with Miss Holland and Mrs. O’Brien in the Waverly Place apartment. They parted with many such assurances.
Jeannette walked all the way home in a daze of memories, thoughts of the old times crowding upon her brain, her interest in business affairs and personal happenings in the Chandler B. Corey Company awake again, stirring with all its former keenness.
§ 8
The dinner to which Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gibbs were invited and to which after various postponements they ultimately came was a dismal failure from Jeannette’s point of view. First of all, she was late with the meal itself, and in hurrying, spattered grease on her gown; the yeast powder biscuits would not rise, and the leg of lamb was underdone, the meat pink when Martin carved it. Then Martin, himself, was nervous and excited, and the cocktails he had with his guest before they sat down went to his head and made him talk and act sillily. Lastly, and most important, the Gibbses were hopeless! Herbert Gibbs was flat-headed and there was no curve at the back of his neck, while the hair grew down under his collar sparse and short; he had an expressionless, stupid face and it was impossible to tell whether he was being bored or amused at the attempt of young Mr. and Mrs. Devlin to entertain him and his wife. Mrs. Gibbs was even less prepossessing. She was a plump German girl, with thin yellow hair done up in a knob on top of her head which frankly showed her white scalp through wide gaps. She was irritatingly voluble, had a piercing sharp nervous laugh, and exclaimed shrilly about whatever Jeannette said or did. She chatted unceasingly about her child, little “Herbie,” who, it seemed, was only ten months old but could already both walk and talk, and she embarrassed Jeannette by asking in a whisper how soon there was going to be a little Devlin. There was nothing spontaneous in the conversation during the whole evening, neither while they sat at table nor later in the living-room, where Mr. Gibbs sat stolidly puffing at cigars, sipping the red Burgundy with which Martin kept his glass filled, and Mrs. Gibbs rattled on about how they had found their home at Cohasset Beach on Long Island, and the involved circumstances connected with its eventual purchase. Mercifully they were obliged to take an early train home on account of “Herbie,” but did not depart until they had warned their young hosts they would soon be expected to spend a Sunday with them in the country.
That night, going to bed, Martin and Jeannette had their first quarrel. It left her shaken and unhappy all the next day. She ridiculed their guests and Martin defended them; she declared they were stupid and common; he, that she didn’t know them, that they were a very good-hearted sort, that she had been cold and patronizing with Mrs. Gibbs, that her husband had noticed it, and become awfully “sore”; it would have been a “damn sight better,” Martin concluded stormily, if they had never been asked.