"In what way?"
"Oh, he put me through a regular drill. Had quite a number of remarks. I shouldn't care to take him down. May have to, though, if he gets too bossy. Eh?—oh, well, I don't know that I care for so very much, thank you. What are you going to have? Chicken-soup?—all right. Yes, chicken-soup, John."
She leaned hack in her chair with a genteel grace, and looked out of the window down on the snow-piled roofs below.
"Do you know, I used to think I was a pretty smart girl, but I begin to believe I'm a good deal of a dummy, after all. That man has been in the building all this time, and I have just found it out."
Ogden's eye involuntarily followed the waiter.
"Not that black man—nix. But how could I be expected to spot his name among all the 'steen hundred on that bulletin by the door? I did see it there this morning, though—just by accident."
"Whose?"
"Oh, Ingles's. Arthur J. Ingles. Think of his being in this very building all this time!" She put the rim of her tumbler up under the edge of her veil.
"In it?" repeated Ogden. "He owns it."
"He does? Great Scott!" she choked and spluttered, setting her glass down suddenly. "Well, I'll be switched!"