“Thanks, awfully; I’ll come on any pretence.”
“You must—Fletcher, take the Duke into the dining-room. It is so cold outside.”
And to this invitation the Duke responded with no less grace, then walked home with Mabel and left her at her door, happy and elated.
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. Forbes stood in his office, his eyes rivetted on a narrow belt of telegraph ticking which slipped loosely through his hands, yard after yard, from a machine on the table. As it fell to the floor and coiled and piled about him, until the upper part of his body alone was visible, it seemed to typify the rising waters of Wall Street. Outside, the city was white and radiant, under snow and electric light. In the comfortable office the curtains were drawn, a gas log flamed in the grate, and the electric loops were hot.
Mr. Forbes had stood motionless for an hour. His hat was on the back of his head. His brow was corrugated. His lips were pressed together, his eyes like flint. The secretary and clerk had addressed him twice, but had been given no heed. The hieroglyphics on that strip of white paper sliding so rapidly through his fingers had his brain in their grip. For the moment he was a financial machine, nothing more.
Suddenly the ticking was softly brushed from his hands, the coils about him kicked apart by a little foot, and he looked down into the face of his wife. She was enveloped in sables; her cheeks were brilliant with the pink of health and cold. Mr. Forbes’ brow relaxed; he drew a deep sigh and removed his hat.
“Well! I am glad I came for you,” she exclaimed. “I believe you would have stood there all night. You looked like a statue. Is anything wrong?”
“I have merely stood here and watched a half million drift through my fingers,” he said. “Northern Consolidated is dropping like a parachute that won’t open. But let us go home. I am very glad you came down.”
When they were in the brougham she slipped her hand into his under cover of the rug. “Are you worried?” she asked.