A few minutes later Stacey opened the door of Mr. Parkins’s private office. “Hello!” he remarked. “Can I come in?”
“Well, Stacey!” cried the architect cordially. “How are you?”
“First-rate. Got a job for me?”
Mr. Parkins stared at him with a humorous smile. “Now what have you gone and done—reformed?”
Stacey laughed. “Not so far as I know,” he said lightly.
“Then you must have acquired grace.”
Stacey waved the suggestion aside deprecatingly. “No,” he said, “but I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve worried my head too long about the problems of the universe. Everybody’s doing it. A mistake. Work’s all there is for a man—not as a drug, but just because it’s the only thing he knows about and can take hold of.” And Stacey had not equivocated. As far as it went this did seem truth to him—just a fragment of the truth. “How about that job?” he added.
“Sure! Glad to have you. We need you badly. Hadn’t found any one to replace poor Phil Blair. My offer’s still open.”
“No,” said Stacey, suddenly grave at the mention of Phil, “take me on for a couple of months at the old salary. Then if I’m any good you can repeat your offer if you want to. I may have forgotten everything I knew. Tell me,” he added, suddenly feeling all this as of very little importance, “how did Phil do? Tell me about Phil.”
“The most lovable chap I’ve ever known,” said Mr. Parkins soberly, “and he worked very hard—too hard. I could have cried when I heard he was dead. But he wasn’t the best man for the place. You would have been better. Odd, that power in any one so frail! I felt as though I were hiring Bramante to design bath-tubs.”