“Nothing, I tell you!” He was certain all the world knew his disgrace.
“Shall I call a doctor?”
“No! No!” he snarled. Call in the entire world and gloat at his discomfiture? He glanced at the vice-president. The impolitic alarm on Steward-son's face exasperated him. “What do you want? Damn it, what do you want?” It was almost a shriek.
“I wanted to consult with you about that Consolidated Cushion Tire bond issue—”
“Yes, yes! Well?”
“Have you decided whether to—”
“Yes! I mean—no! I mean—Wait! Ask Witter. I dictated a memorandum to him, I think. Yes, I did!”
He was making desperate efforts to speak calmly; but he stopped, because Stewardson, a dastard of thirty-two, suddenly grew to resemble young Mr. Francis Wolfe! Stewardson saw the gleam in Ashton Welles's eyes and felt that the president must have hated him all his life!
“I'll get it from Witter,” he said, and hastily left the room.
Welles stared wide-eyed at the open door for perhaps a full minute; always he saw ruins—smoke and ashes—ashes everywhere! And then he started up and squared his shoulders. He rang for an office-boy and said to him, “Tell Mr. Witter I've gone for the day”—Witter was his private secretary—and left the office.