“You had one call. No message, though. The man said he’d call back later.”
“Good.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk.
There was a pile of letters on his desk. Very precisely he cut the letters open one by one. Caroline watched him with a mixture of admiration and dislike.
Oliver L. Murphy was a tall man. He was heavy but not in the usual manner. His arms and legs and neck were long and thin and his hips were narrow; his stomach and chest, however, were massive. He held himself erect. His face was red as all Irishmen’s faces are supposed to be. His eyes and hair were dark and he had a thick curved nose. Mr Murphy’s clothes fitted him well. They were usually of a somber color and always correct. His cuffs were beautifully starched.
For five years Caroline Lawson had been his secretary. Her first job had been as his secretary; her last job, too, she thought to herself: she would be married soon and that would be the end of typing and putting cigar-scented flowers in fake silver vases. Caroline Lawson was not sure whom she would marry but she would certainly get married to someone soon.
Mr Murphy finished reading his letters.
“Anything important?” asked Caroline.
Mr Murphy shook his head. “Not much of anything. We got one letter here I ought to answer.”
“I’ll get my pad.” Caroline picked up a lightly ruled pad of paper from her desk. Then she went over and sat down in a chair beside Mr Murphy’s desk. She sat close to the window so that the morning sunlight would warm her. As she sat down bits of dust vibrated up into the sunlight from her chair seat. The motes of dust danced and glittered and then slowly sank along the beams of light to the floor.
“I’m ready,” said Caroline Lawson.