The others obeyed his orders because they had to; but Joey wanted to. She was eager to help. She admired his way of doing things. She was his friend.
He had plenty of difficulties in this new job. Port Linton was a conservative British colony, and some of the old clients resented young Napier. McLean was dourly hostile; Sprague, under an obliging manner, was impatient and scornful. Only Joey stood by him with absolute loyalty.
He would leave the door of his office open, so that he could see her at her typewriter. Even after she had gone, as he sat later at his work, he would look at the place where she had been and remember her wide-browed, candid face, her dark hair, her gray eyes. For that slender, quiet girl he felt a respect that was almost reverence, for she had the qualities that he prized above all others—dignity, reserve, and loyalty.
They had very little to say to each other during those first three days, for they were very busy; but he was always aware of Joey, and in his heart he always had confidence that she was his friend, his faithful helper.
“There’s no one like her,” he thought comfortably.
He thought her beautiful, too. He thought that her rare, slow smile was a wonderful thing, that her voice was the most solacing in all the world, that her sunburned hands were lovelier than any he had ever seen. His solitary and inflexible spirit turned toward her as its one refuge.
Late on Friday afternoon McLean brought him the books, which he wanted to look over before paying the salaries on Saturday morning. Every one else had gone home, and he and McLean sat alone in the private office, which was filled with the light of the sunset.
“Now!” thought McLean, watching. “Now you’ll have something to talk about, my lad!”
“What’s this?” said Napier, frowning.
“What?” asked McLean, who knew very well.