He closed his eyes the better to decide.
In the outer room, Miss Connie Staples permitted herself numerous and varied speculations as to the identity and purposes of the young man with the flowers, the while she dusted the typewriters, distributed the copy for the morning’s start and set the place in order. She had her sleeves rolled up, and had wound a big handkerchief about her hair; beneath this turban her forehead scored itself in lines of perplexed wonderment as to this curious early caller—but when two other girls arrived, she suffered them to put aside their things and begin work without so much as hinting at what had happened. A third girl, coming a little later, brought in a stray blossom which she had picked up in the corridor outside. She mentioned the fact, and even laid stress upon it, but got no syllable of explanation.
This was all simple enough, but at half-past nine the arrival of still another of the sex put Miss Connie’s resources to an unexpected test.
A handsome, youngish woman, very well dressed indeed, appeared suddenly upon the threshold of the workroom, knocking upon the door and pushing it wide open at the same instant. She looked curiously about, and then point-blank into the face of the girl who came toward her. It was a glance of independent and impersonal criticism which the two exchanged, covering with instantaneous swiftness an infinitude of details as to dress, coiffure, complexion, figure, temperament and origin. Connie wondered if the new-comer was really quite a lady, long before she formulated an inquiring thought about her errand. Even as she finally looked this question of business, she decided that it was an actress with a play for the provinces, and asked herself if she did not seem to recognize the face. The visitor, for her part, saw that Connie’s teeth were too uneven to be false, and that her waist was overlong, and that her hair was not thick enough to be worn flat over the temples, much less to justify so confident a manner. In all, something less than a second of time had elapsed.
“I want to see Miss Bailey—Miss Frank Bailey,” explained the stranger, graciously.
Connie conveyed to her, with courteous brevity, the fact that Miss Bailey had not yet arrived. “Is it something that I can do?” she added.
The other shook her head, and showed an affable thread of white between her freshened lips. “No, I will wait for her,” she answered, and threw a keen glance about the place. “That’s her private room, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding at the closed door to the right. “I will wait in there,” she decided, in the same breath, and began moving toward it.
Connie alertly headed her off. “If you will kindly take a seat here—” she interposed, standing in front of her visitor.
“It’s too noisy out here,” remarked the other; “those horrid machines would give me a headache. That is her private room, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately,” Connie began, lowering her voice, “the room belongs to another office. Or rather, I should say, it is locked. Miss Bailey will be here—with the key—very shortly now.”