But the first thing he thought of when he saw the old lady picking her way between bales of paper near the door of the office, was his socks. The day was very warm, and he thought he remembered pulling them down to cool his legs. It was impossible to make sure. You cannot pull up your socks in the presence of a woman, even an old woman. Besides, she had her mouth primped severely and her eyes fixed with a soap-and-water expression upon him.
He leaped from his chair, showing a purple rim around each ankle and the bare skin above. He cast a despairing glance at his collar, and made a dive for his coat.
"Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Walton! Excuse me," he exclaimed, thrusting his arms in the sleeves. "I was not expecting this honour, as you see!"
She advanced and deliberately seated herself in the chair he had vacated.
"Don't trouble to put on your coat, Mr. Carter. It's very warm in here," fanning herself. "I think we shall have to move the Signal to the Woman's Building on the avenue. There is still the kitchen and pantry we could use—very large pantry—make an excellent private editorial office."
"I beg pardon, Madam, what did you say?"
He had forgotten his socks. His eyes protruded. She laughed—it was the triumph of mind over matter—that laugh, an old woman's cackle, he being the matter. He did not like it. He stood waiting for an explanation, seeing that she occupied the only chair. He felt that it would take a good deal to explain how and why she thought she could induce him to move the office of the Signal into the kitchen of that female rat trap on the avenue.
She came immediately to the point, a thing you never do in business unless you are sure you have the drop on the other fellow.
"The Co-Citizens' Foundation Fund holds a mortgage on the Signal, Mr. Carter?" She put this affirmative in the form of a question.
"Er—I believe there was a small mortgage held by the Mosely Estate," he admitted.