"Lookin' peaky, you are," said her employer.
Mabel retorted indifferently:
"Weather affects me. Seems even to have affected you, sir."
"Ho! Observant young miss! But you're wrong. Weather don't affect me; and it oughtn't to affect a healthy young woman like you. Sleep badly?"
"Ye-es."
"Same here."
The need of sympathy gripped him. He was so sorry for himself that he felt sorry for this white-faced typist, whom hitherto he had regarded as a machine.
"Beastly, ain't it?" She nodded, and he continued, speaking rather to himself than to her: "To toss about, tinglin' all over, with one's thoughts in a ferment! Perfectly disgustin'!"
Mabel smiled faintly.
"I've a lot on my mind just now," he went on, "a bigger load than I care to carry—immense responsibilities, see?"