All the morning John Dene was restless. He seemed unable to concentrate upon anything. Several times he span round in his revolving chair with a "Say, Miss West;" but as soon as Dorothy raised her eyes from her work, he seemed to lose the thread of his ideas and, with a mumbled incoherence, turned to the mechanical sorting of the papers before him.
Dorothy was puzzled to account for his strangeness of manner, and after a time determined that he must be ill.
Presently he jumped up and began restlessly pacing the room. Three times he paused beside Dorothy as she was engaged in checking inventories. Immediately she looked up, he pivoted round on his heel and restarted the pacing, twirling between his lips the cigar that had gone out an hour before.
On the fourth occasion that he stood looking down at her, Dorothy turned.
"If you do that, I shall scream," she cried.
He stepped back a pace, obviously disconcerted by her threat.
"Do what?" he enquired.
"Why, prance up and down like that, and then come and stand over me. It—it makes me nervous," she added lamely, as she returned to her work.
"Sorry," said John Dene, as he threw himself once more into his chair.
Suddenly with an air of decision, Dorothy put down her pencil and turning, faced him.