It was wrong and horrible to hate. It was shameful to be so angry and shaken.
“He’s not worth bothering about,” she thought. “He is arrogant. He’s domineering and conceited. He calls it making a fool of himself to insult and hurt me.”
She did not see him again that morning. He used the dictaphone for his letters, and presently she had them to type. It was strange to hear his voice in her ears, his impatient young voice:
“No, cross that out. No, begin it all over.”
All that long day, and all the next day, went by without a word or glance between them. The following morning was Saturday, a half holiday, and Mildred was going, as usual, to spend the week-end at home. She came to the office dressed for traveling, and bringing her bag with her.
She went directly into Randall’s little office.
“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I’m leaving to-day.”
He looked up at her.
“You’re supposed to give a week’s notice,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back.”