It was then nearing eleven o'clock. The doctor sat at a tall old "secretary" between his windows, swinging round with expectancy as his friend entered. There were still people of a sort, human beings in a manner of speaking, in the waiting-room; but he let them wait now, that being what the room was for.
"Well?... How'd it strike you?"
The Labor Commissioner mopped his brow with a snowy handkerchief, which released into the office the scent of cologne. He was a stoutish man, and the morning, for autumn, was astonishingly warm.
"Well, it's ill-timed, V.V.," said he, without ill-humor. "And--kind of extreme. I told you the other day how I felt about it."
The face of the medico fell.
"I thought you said you approved of a good, pertinent letter, to show that the laity were backing you up!"
"I said a mild, easy-tempered letter might be all right. But--"
"Why, Sam, don't you think that's an awfully mild letter? You ought to see what I edited out of it."
"Well, you left in enough to let the 'Post' in for a damage suit, all right. You, too.... Only you won't have much to lodge a judgment against, long's you haven't got a billhead printed and charge regular fees like I told you."
"I'm perfectly responsible--far as that goes. Don't you worry."