“Yes, Mr Murphy.”
Smoothly Mr Murphy moved across the room. All of his movements were smooth and swift. He opened the swinging gate that separated him from his staff. They didn’t look up from their work as he walked between the desks toward the hall.
Caroline took more paper out of her desk and put it in her typewriter. She opened a black notebook. Slowly she began to copy. After a minute or so she stopped. She wasn’t concentrating and she didn’t know what was wrong.
Caroline Lawson leaned back in her swivel chair and her arms dropped limply at her sides. The sunlight was gone out of the room and she could no longer see the dust in the light.
Far away she could hear the sounds of automobile horns blowing, of newsboy shouts in the street; and, from time to time, their building would rumble as a train passed underground.
Closer to her were the sounds of the office. The clattering of typewriters, the constant low buzz of voices; these were the sounds of her days. Caroline was dissatisfied.
Across the room she could see Robert Holton writing something in a black book. She pitied him because he seemed to really like what he was doing. But then it was better than being a soldier: probably anything was better than that. But then Robert Holton wasn’t a woman. That made a lot of difference, thought Caroline. He couldn’t be depressed by things the way she was. Men were never sensitive about such things. She had a malaise. Having thought of this word, she was pleased with it. The word described her sudden fits of depression.
Robert Holton closed the book on his desk. He looked about him uncertainly. Then he stood up and walked toward her. He was presentable, she thought. Certainly better looking than anyone else in Heywood and Golden, but he was not what she wanted at all. Also, there was some doubt in her mind that Robert Holton was interested in her.
“How’s it going, Caroline?”
“I’m slowed up.” She sighed loudly and wilted in her chair.