Richling was stung. The conversation failed. He recommenced it in a tone pitched intentionally too low for the alert ear of Narcisse.
“Doctor, I’ve simply called to say to you that I’m out of work and looking for employment again.”
“Um—hum,” said the Doctor, with a cold fulness of voice that hurt Richling afresh. “You’ll find it hard to get anything this time of year,” he continued, with no attempt at undertone; “it’s very hard for anybody to get anything these days, even when well recommended.”
Richling smiled an instant. The Doctor did not, but turned partly away to his desk, and added, as if the smile had displeased him:—
“Well, maybe you’ll not find it so.”
Richling turned fiery red.
“Whether I do or not,” he said, rising, “my affairs sha’n’t trouble anybody. Good-morning!”
He started out.
“How’s Mrs. Richling?” asked the Doctor.
“She’s well,” responded Richling, putting on his hat and disappearing in the corridor. Each footstep could be heard as he went down the stairs.