“I?” Powers had inquired.
“Well, he seems like a pretty decent sort,” she answered indifferently.
“So he is,” admitted Powers, with an indifference that was decidedly more genuine than her own. It was quite clear that Powers’s interest went no further. He had a wife and two children and his own ambitions.
For a long time she saw no more of him than she saw of Blake. He nodded a good-morning when he came in, and then seemed to lose himself until noon. Where he lunched she did not know. For a while she had rather looked for him, and then, to cure herself of that, had changed her own luncheon place. At night he generally hurried out early––a bad practice in itself: at least once, Farnsworth 132 had wanted him for something after he was gone; he had made no comment, but it was the sort of thing Farnsworth remembered. When, on the very next day, Mr. Pendleton started home still earlier, it had required a good deal of self-control on her part not to stop him. But she did not stop him. For one thing, Blake was at his desk at the time.
It was a week later that Miss Winthrop was called into the private office of Mr. Seagraves one afternoon. His own stenographer had been taken ill, and he wished her to finish the day. She took half a dozen letters, and then waited while Farnsworth came in for a confidential consultation upon some business matters. It was as the latter was leaving that Mr. Seagraves called him back.
“How is Pendleton getting along?” he inquired.
Miss Winthrop felt her heart stop for a beat or two. She bent over her notebook to conceal the color that was burning her cheeks. For an impersonal observer she realized they showed too much.
“I think he has ability,” Farnsworth answered 133 slowly. “He began well, but he has let down a little lately.”
“That’s too bad,” answered Mr. Seagraves. “I thought he would make a good man for us.”
“I can tell better in another month,” Mr. Farnsworth answered.