Edwards’ face was crimson. “I didn’t mean what I said, Carroll,” he blurted out. “I know well enough that—oh, well, I apologize.”
“Shucks!” said Stacey, “that’s all right. It’s a good thing to look into one’s own existence now and then. For the rest, I dare say that I’m paid more than I’m worth for my work here. I can’t tell, and I don’t intend to waste much time worrying about it. I probably earn more than a skilled mechanic like you, and that’s wrong. I earn less than a broker, and that’s wrong. I can, because of my aptitude and a long training, build decent houses. How’s any one to know what my exact remuneration should be?”
“Under this system the Lord God Himself couldn’t decide.”
“That’s what I mean—under this system.”
Stacey was engrossed with the plans for the bridge one afternoon when the office-boy poked his head in at the door.
“Lady to see you, Mr. Carroll,” he announced.
“All right,” said Stacey mechanically, not taking it in.
So when a moment later he looked up to see Irene Loeffler standing opposite him he fairly gaped with surprise. But he rose quickly and went around the desk to her.
“How are you?” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Sit down, do! It’s a long time since I’ve seen you.”
She shook hands, dropped his hand quickly, then flung herself into a chair. She was the same abrupt disconcerting person as ever. Just now she was a trifle flushed with embarrassment.