“Miss Sturgis, while you were out, engravers ’phoned and said they can’t find that cut.”
“Miss Sturgis, Mr. Kipps wants to know how many copies of Garden and Kitchen we sold up to November first last.”
“Miss Sturgis, Miss Hilliker went home sick.”
“Miss Sturgis, will you sign my requisition for a box of clips?”
“Miss Sturgis, c’n I have a pencil?”
Thus it would continue for the rest of the day. The afternoon light would shine bleak and garish through the fireproofed windows with their meshed wire embedded in the glass, the dust would settle on desks and papers, the thundering presses on the lower floors would send fine vibrations through the building, typewriters would maintain a clicking droning, a buzz of small noises would harass the ear, there would be a continual flash of paper and of white hands at the folders’ tables, while pervading everything would be the thick sweet smell of ink emanating from stacks of new print matter fresh from the press-room.
Five o’clock always surprised Jeannette. Her work absorbed her; if she threw a hasty glance at the neat small mahogany-cased clock on her desk, it was to ascertain if there was time enough to complete one more task that day, or to begin preparations for a new one. The ringing gong that sounded “quitting time” invariably startled her into a blank sensation of discouragement. She would wish at that moment for another hour to finish the matter in hand,—just a little longer and she would have it out of the way! The commotion among the girls which instantly followed the gong never failed to annoy her. In less than five minutes,—save for Mrs. M’Ardle, little Miss Lacy, Miss Stenicke, and old man Harris,—her department would be empty. These assistants remained a little later to clean up the day’s work and prepare for the morrow’s. In another quarter of an hour, they too would begin to bang desk drawers shut, and prepare to depart. Presently Jeannette would be alone. She usually was the last to leave. It was then that a feeling of fatigue, a weariness of soul, a distaste of life would begin to assert themselves. Reaction from the racing events of morning and afternoon would close down upon her and of a sudden her work, her days, her whole life, would seem drab, colorless, profitless. What did it matter if a few more copies of the Dictionary were sold, what difference did it make if the new attack was a success, whether or not little Miss Lacy was inclined to be careless, or that Mr. Kipps had attempted to interfere with her again? Of what importance was the Mail Order Department of the Corey Publishing Company anyway? Or the concern itself? Mr. Corey had worked hard all his life and then had died and left it behind him! What good had it ever done him? This racketing building represented such trivial enterprise after all! It seemed ridiculously trifling.... She would get to her feet with a great sigh of apathy, disgust for her work and life rising strong within her. Frequently with a sweep of an impatient hand she would scoop the papers before her into the top drawer of her desk, or thrust them back into her “Incoming” basket. They could wait until the morrow; to-night they bored her; she wanted to get away; to shut them out of her mind! ... Ah, it was all so petty! No one would thank her for working after hours! She was sick to death of it!
She would adjust her hat with her usual care before the mirror in the dressing-room, tucking her hair neatly beneath its brim, don fur and gloves, and proceed to the elevator.
On the way out she might encounter Mr. Kipps or Mr. Allister.
“Good-evening, Miss Sturgis.”