It was with a distinct sinkage, well laid over with office imperturbability, that she showed Mrs. Blair the note, saw her stab into her greenish-black bird's nest of a hat and depart alone. Then the office boy; the publicity man, whistling; a clerk or two, and finally a sixteen-year-old girl who pasted clippings into scrap books.
The pleasantly cool summer day had thickened up rather suddenly into the beginnings of dusk, the electric sign down over the theater throwing up a sudden glow through the windows. She sat before her machine, shorthand book in lap, her attitude quiet enough except that her hands, as they clasped each other, showed whitish at the nails, and she would not swerve her gaze by the fraction of an inch, even with the consciousness of a presence behind her.
It was Visigoth at her shoulder, the male aroma of him, a mixture of cigar smoke, bay rum, and freshly washed hands, and the feel of his rough-serge suit very close.
She rose, withholding herself stiffly from his nearness, marveling, as always, at this power of hers to endure him so casually.
"Letters?" she asked.
He placed a knee on the chair rung, tilting it toward him, and leaning across the back at her.
"You funny, funny girl," he said, regarding her intently through the crinkling eyes.
She met his stare in a challenging sort of silence.
"My, what big eyes you have!"
"Please," she said, retreating from the look in his, her weight against the table until it slid.