"I have sent for our treasurer, Mr. Woodward," said Mary. "Won't you be seated for a few minutes?"
They sat down in the same impersonal way and glanced around the room with eyes that seemed to see nothing. By the side of the mantel was a framed piece of history, an itemized bill of the first generation of the firm, dated June 28, 1706, and quaint with its old spelling, its triple column of pounds, shillings and pence.
"May I look at that?" asked one of the accountants, rising. The other followed him. Their heads bent over the document…. It occurred to Mary that they were verifying the addition.
Again the door opened and this time it was Burdon, his dashing personality immediately dominating the room.
Mary introduced the accountants to him.
"With our new methods," she said, "we probably need a new system of bookkeeping. I also want to compare our old costs with present costs—"
Burdon stared at her, but Mary—half-ashamed of what she was doing—kept her glance upon the two accountants.
"Mr. Burdon will give you all the old records, all the old books you want," she said, "and will help you in every possible way—"
And still Burdon stared at her—his whole life concentrated for a moment in his glance. And still Mary looked at the two accountants who completed the triangle by looking at Burdon, as they naturally would, waiting for him to turn and speak to them. As Mary watched them, she became conscious of a change in their manner, a tenseness of interest, such as the two astronomers aforesaid might display at the sight of some disturbance in the heavens.
"What do they see?" she thought, and looked at Burdon. But Burdon at the same moment had turned to the accountants, his manner as large, his air as dashing as ever.