Mr. Olmstead, the auditor, was a tiresome old man, who teetered on his toes when he talked and tapped his thumb-nail with the rim of his eye-glasses to emphasize his words. He took a tedious time over his dictation, and Jeannette had to shut her lips tightly to keep from prompting him.
Mr. Cavendish, on the other hand, was charming. He was about thirty-three or-four, Jeannette judged, handsome, with thick, very dark red hair, and a thick, dark red mustache. He was always very courteous, and had an ever-ready stock of pleasantries. She was aware that he admired her, and she could not help feeling self-conscious in his company. They joked together mildly and their eyes frequently held one another’s in amused glances. Of all the people in the office she liked best to take dictation from him; he never repeated himself, his sentences were neatly phrased and to the point, and his choice of words, she considered, beautiful. That he was unmarried did not detract from her interest in him. She read some of the recent back numbers of Corey’s Commentary and particularly the editorials, and told Roy she admired them enormously.
She was far happier in the environment of the editorial rooms than upstairs where she worked with the other stenographers in the midst of the bustle, racket and confusion of the circulation and mail order departments. She soon discovered she had little in common with Miss Foster or Miss Bixby; Miss Lopez was a pretty nonentity; Miss Pratt, an elderly incompetent, and Miss La Farge, a vulgar-lipped grisette. The girls realized she looked down on them and clannishly hung together, to talk about her among themselves. They were not openly rude, but Jeannette was aware she was not popular with them.
Miss Holland alone on the first floor attracted her. They smiled at one another whenever their eyes met, and Jeannette enjoyed the feeling that this faded, kindly gentlewoman recognized in her a girl of her own class.
§ 8
There were a dozen other personalities in the company that the new stenographer learned to know and with whom she came more or less into contact. Important among these was Mr. Corey’s secretary, Mr. Smith, whom nobody liked. He was suspected of being a tale-bearer, an informant who tattled inconsequences to his chief. He was obviously a toady, and treated everyone in the office, not a member of the firm, with an air of great condescension. Mrs. Charlotte Inness of the book department was a regal, gray-haired personage, with many floating draperies that were ever trailing magnificently behind her as she came and went. Miss Travers, who was cooped up all day behind the wire grilling of the Cashier’s cage, was a waspish, merry individual, and although sometimes common, even vulgar, was both friendly and amusing. Francis Holme and Van Alstyne spent most of their time on the road visiting book dealers. Van Alstyne was English and inclined to be patronizing, but Holme was large-toothed, large-mouthed and big-eared, bluff and frank, noisy and good-hearted. And there was also Mr. Cavendish’s assistant, Horatio Stephens, a tall, rangy young man, with rather a dreamy, detached air, with whom Roy shared a room at his boarding-house. Jeannette found him vaguely repellent; there was something about his long skinny hands and drooping eyelids that made her creepy. And then there was Mr. Corey himself.
Chandler B. Corey was, as Roy had described him, a man of vivid personality. Although not yet in his fifties, he had a full head of silky white hair. In sharp contrast to this were his black bushy eyebrows and his black mustache which curled gracefully at the ends and which he had a habit of pulling whenever he was thinking hard. His skin was pink and clear as a boy’s, but there was nothing effeminate in his face with its heavy square jaw. There was a dynamic quality about him that communicated itself to everyone who came in contact with him, and yet with all his energy and fire, Jeannette noted there was an extraordinary gentleness about him, somewhat suggesting sadness.
On a day toward the end of her third week, she took a long and important letter from him. Miss Foster was struggling with a pile of other work he had already given her, and Mr. Smith sent Bertram upstairs with a request for Miss Sturgis to come down.
She had never been in Mr. Corey’s office before. At once she was struck with its quality. Compared with the noisy ruggedness and bare floors outside, it was quiet, luxurious. Sectional bookcases, filled to overflowing, and many autographed framed photographs lined walls that were covered with burlap. There were one or two large leather armchairs and in the center a great flat-topped desk heaped with manuscripts and stacks of clipped papers. A film of dust lay over many of these, and the scent of cigar smoke was in the air. Mr. Corey’s silvery head beyond the desk appeared as a startling blot of white against the background of warm brown.
She was surprised to discover how tersely he dictated. There was nothing of a literary quality about his sentences, nothing savoring of the polish of Mr. Cavendish. He was all business and dispatch. She felt oddly sorry for him; more than once during the brief quarter of an hour that she was with him a great sympathy for him came over her. He seemed weighed down with responsibilities. A paper mill was pressing him for money; no funds would be available for another three months; his letter offered them his note for ninety days. While he dictated, the telephone interrupted him; something had gone wrong with the linotype machines, and the delay would result in The Wheel of Fortune being two or three days late on the news-stands. In the midst of this conversation Mr. Featherstone came in to report that Shreve & Baker had cancelled their advertisement and had definitely refused to renew it. An army of annoyances pressed around on every side.