Jeannette straightened herself and frowned. She felt her anger rising.
“Er—you—a——” she began, deliberately clearing her throat with a little annoyed cough. “I think you’ve made a mistake. Mr. Corey is not in. As you see, I am busy. Good-day.”
She looked down at her notes and swung her chair around to her machine.
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Devlin. He took a step nearer, put his hand on her desk, bent down to catch a glimpse of her face, and said with a pleading note in his voice and with that same flashing smile:
“Aw—please don’t be sore at me, Miss Sturgis!”
The man’s sudden nearness brought Jeannette up rigidly in her seat. Her eyes blazed a moment, but there was something in this person’s manner and in the ingratiating quality of his smile that made her hesitate. Her first thought had been to call the porter or one of the men outside, and have him summarily put out. Instead she said in her most frigid tone:
“Really, Mr. Devlin, you presume too far. You see that I am busy and I’ve told you that Mr. Corey is not in.”
“Well that’s all right, but what do you want me to tell Miss Alexander? She’ll be wanting to know if I delivered her message.”
“Miss Alexander, as I remember her, is a very lovely girl. You can tell her that I’ve not forgotten her, and that I am sorry that ... that in her office there are not more mannerly gentlemen.”
Devlin threw back his head and roared. His laugh was extraordinary.