The girl slipped into the room, softly closing the door behind her, and walked a hesitating step or two in John Dene's direction, a picture of shy maidenhood. Marjorie Rogers was an instinctive actress.
"Gone home!" she repeated as a conversational opening. "Is she ill?" She gave him a look from beneath her lashes, a look she had found equally deadly with subs and captains.
John Dene shook his head, but continued to gaze at her.
He was a very difficult man to talk to, Marjorie decided. She had already come to the conclusion that she had been wrong in her suspicion that he made love to Dorothy.
"You don't like us, do you, Mr. Dene?" She made a half-step in his direction, dropping her eyes and drawing in her under lip in a way that had once nearly caused a rear-admiral to strike his colours.
"Like who?" demanded John Dene, wondering why the girl stayed now that he had told her Dorothy had gone home.
"Us girls." Marjorie flashed at him the sub-captain look. "May I sit down?" she asked softly.
"Sure." John Dene was regarding her much as he might a blue zebra that had strayed into his office.
"Thank you, Mr. Dene." Marjorie sat down, crossing her legs in a way that gave him the full benefit of a dainty foot and ankle. She had on her very best silk stockings, silk all the way up, so that there need be no anxiety as to the exact whereabouts of her skirt.
"I have been wondering about Wessie——"