It was a gray day in cold and tardy spring when Bruce Visigoth sent for her—one of those heavy afternoons that darken up at four o'clock and press thick as gravy against the windows. He was seated at his desk, hands laced at the back of his head and one foot propped on an open drawer, his male stenographer typing at the remote corner of a wide and rather luxuriously appointed office. Except for the green cone of light over him, the room was plushy with dusk.
"About that play—" he began.
"What play?" she said, seating herself in the entirely easy business manner she had with him.
"'The Web.'"
Her strong white hand out from its immaculate linen cuff lay unnervously on the glass top of his desk, but the fingers now began to lift in rotation.
"Yes?"
"I talked it over with my brother before he returned to Chicago yesterday. Thought the firm might be interested."
"Yes?"
"He doesn't see it."
"He—wouldn't."