"Rotten."
"I should think it was!" Old man Minick would agree. "I—should—think—it—was! Hm."
George wished he wouldn't. He couldn't have it, that's all. Old man Minick would stroll over to the desk marked Satterlee, or Owens, or James. These brisk young men would toss an upward glance at him and concentrate again on the sheets and files before them. Old man Minick would stand, balancing from heel to toe and blowing out his breath a little. He looked a bit yellow and granulated and wavering, there in the cruel morning light of the big plate glass windows. Or perhaps it was the contrast he presented with these slim, slick young salesmen.
"Well, h'are you to-day, Mr.—uh—Satterlee? What's the good word?"
Mr. Satterlee would not glance up this time. "I'm pretty well. Can't complain."
"Good. Good."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"No-o-o. No. Not a thing. Just dropped in to see my son a minute."
"I see." Not unkindly. Then, as old man Minick still stood there, balancing, Mr. Satterlee would glance up again, frowning a little. "Your son's desk is over there, I believe. Yes."
George and Nettie had a bedtime conference about these visits and Nettie told him, gently, that the bond house head objected to friends and relatives dropping in. It was against office rules. It had been so when she was employed there. Strictly business. She herself had gone there only once since her marriage.