She was waiting in an attitude of respectful attention, infinitely provoking.
"Certainly not! I shall ask my aunt to lend you to me for another day if we do not finish this afternoon—Indeed, on second thoughts, I do not think I shall try to finish to-day—we can complete the matter at Blissington—" And then he stopped abruptly—Läo Delemar would be there! He had melted her into a mood from which everything could be hoped during this week of uneventful family party—Beatrice would only stay for Christmas Day, and was indeed no great obstacle in any case. But he feared he would probably not be able to have interesting business interviews during the holidays with his aunt's typist.
He laughed shortly to himself, and dictated a long sentence, concluding the letter to the Lord Mayor. He had better control the interest he was feeling, that was evident!
Katherine made no remark, while she wondered what had stopped his questioning so suddenly. She smiled again a little. It had the desired effect—Mr. Strobridge jumped up from his chair and went to the fireplace.
"Well—what are you thinking about?" he demanded, from there.
"My work, of course! What else should I be thinking about?" Her eyes at last met his in innocent surprise.
"I don't believe you are quite truthful—one does not smile in that enigmatic fashion over work—dull, tedious work like this, statistics of bodies who are to benefit by this absurd charity—Oh! no, fair scribe! I feel there lies a world of malice in that smile."
"Even a scribe is permitted sometimes to make reflections."
"Not without confessing what they are."
"We are not in the days of the Spanish Inquisition—" taking up a paper. "On the first list there is a letter for the Mayor of Manchester."