“Mr. Gore has decided not to go out to lunch,” he said. “Please bring him a glass of milk and two chicken sandwiches from the directors’ restaurant.”
Wilfred cast a glance on Dobereiner, and went out. In a moment or two he returned—empty handed. Dobereiner ran to meet him.
“Where is Mr. Gore’s lunch?” he demanded, aghast.
“I gave the order,” said Wilfred. “A waiter will bring it directly.”
Dobereiner’s slightly bloodshot eyes stuck out at Wilfred—but more in dismay, than anger. “I told you to bring it!” he stammered. “Mr. Gore must not be kept waiting!”
Wilfred looked at him without speaking, one side of his mouth pressed stubbornly into his cheek. All but wringing his hands, Dobereiner turned, and waddled out of the room.
In due course he returned, bearing the glass and plate as if they were holy vessels. Placing them on Mr. Gore’s desk, he stood back. Mr. Gore did not ask the wherefore of this act of service, but picked up one of the sandwiches, and bit into it. Wilfred suspected that such incidents as this did not injure him with his boss; after all they were of the same class: it was other things.
Mr. Gore was still munching when there was heard a light, assured tapping on the glass of the corridor door; two fingernails rotated. Wilfred’s breast burned and his lip curled painfully as he went to open the door. They all knew who this was. Dobereiner turned a foolish, beaming smile towards the door; and Mr. Gore looked over the top of his desk with all the sullenness gone out of his face. Wilfred opened the door; and Joe Kaplan breezed past him.
“ ‘Lo, Wilfred! . . . ’Lo, Mr. Dobereiner. . . . Good morning, Mr. Gore.”
He got no answering greeting from Wilfred; but a fat lot Joe cared for that. That was the worst of it; filled with a fervor of indignation, Wilfred had not the power to make Joe feel it. Why? He knew. It was because his indignation was insincere. The sight of the glittering Joe made him sick with envy. He was crushed by the hatefulness of his own feelings.