“Didn't you take two hours for lunch? Had mine off the top of my desk. Ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Dictated six letters between bites and swallows.”
A frown of annoyance appeared between T. A. Buck's remarkably fine eyes. He came over to Mrs. McChesney and looked down at her.
“Look here, you'll kill yourself. It's all very well to be interested in one's business, but I draw the line at ruining my digestion for it. Why in Sam Hill don't you take a decent hour at least?”
“Only bricklayers can take an hour for lunch,” retorted Emma McChesney. “When you get to be a lady captain of finance you can't afford it.”
She crossed to her desk and placed her fingers on the electric switch. The desk-light cast a warm golden glow on the smart little figure in the trim tailored suit, the pert hat, the shining furs. She was rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed as a schoolgirl. There was about her that vigor, and glow, and alert assurance which bespeaks congenial work, sound sleep, healthy digestion, and a sane mind. She was as tingling, and bracing, and alive, and antiseptic as the crisp, snappy November air outdoors.
T. A. Buck drew a long breath as he looked at her.
“Those are devastating clothes,” he remarked. “D'you know, until now I always had an idea that furs weren't becoming to women. Make most of 'em look stuffy. But you—”
Emma McChesney glanced down at the shining skins of muff and scarf. She stroked them gently and lovingly with her gloved hand.
“M-m-m-m! These semi-precious furs are rather satisfactory—until you see a woman in sealskin and sables. Then you want to use 'em for a hall rug.”
T. A. Buck stepped within the radius of the yellow light, so that its glow lighted up his already luminous eyes—eyes that had a trick of translucence under excitement.