He passed out, followed by Weavel. Graveling only lingered upon the threshold. He was looking towards Julia.
"Miss Thurnbrein," he said, "can I have a word with you?"
"You cannot," she replied steadily.
He remained there, dogged, full of suppressed wrath. The sight of her taking her place before the typewriter seemed to madden him. Already she was the better for the change of work and surroundings, for the improved conditions of her daily life. There was the promise of colour in her cheeks. Her plain black gown was as simple as ever, but her hair was arranged with care, and she carried herself with a new distinction, born of her immense contentment. Her supercilious attitude attracted while it infuriated him.
"It's only a word I want," he persisted. "I have a right to some sort of civility, at any rate."
"You have no rights at all," she retorted. "I thought that we had finished with that the last time we spoke together."
"I want to know," he went on obstinately, "why you haven't been to work lately?"
"Because I have left Weinberg's," she told him curtly. "It is no business of yours, but if it will help to get rid of you—"
"Left Weinberg's," he repeated. "Got another job, eh?"
"I am Mr. Maraton's assistant secretary," she announced.