“We can probably manage that,” Mr. Warner agreed urbanely. “Of course we can manage that. He is, you see, a prospective client, and a very profitable one. We must continue to do business with him as usual.”
“Oh, of course!” gasped Susannah. “Please don’t think I’m trying to interfere with your business. I understand perfectly. It is only that I—but of course you understand. I don’t want to see him again.” She rose. Her lithe figure came up to the last inch of its height; the attitude gave her the effect of a column. Her head was like a glowing alabaster lamp set at the top of that column. All the trouble had faded out of her face. The set, scarlet lines in her mouth had melted to their normal scarlet curves. The light had come back in a brilliant flood to her turquoise eyes. In this uprush of spirit, her red hair seemed even to bristle and to glisten. She sparkled visibly. “And now, I guess I’ll get back to work,” she said. “Oh, by the way, I found in my mail this morning a letter addressed, not to the women’s department, but to the firm. I opened it, but of course by accident.”
Mr. Warner drew the letter from its envelope, began casually running through it. The conversation seemed now to be ended; Susannah moved toward the door. From his perusal of the letter, Mr. Warner stabbed at her back with one quick, alarmed glance, and:
“Oh, Miss Ayer, don’t go yet,” he said. His tone was a little tense and sharp. But he continued to peruse the letter. As he finished the last page, he looked up. Again, his tone seemed peculiar; and he hesitated before he spoke.
“Er—did you make out the signature on this?” he asked.
“No—it puzzled me,” replied Susannah.
“Sit down again, please,” said Mr. Warner. Now his manner had that accent of suavity, that velvety actor quality, which usually he reserved solely for women clients. “I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to see Mr. Cowler again.”
“Mr. Warner, I ... I simply could not do that. I can never speak to him again. You don’t know.... You can’t guess.... Why, I could scarcely tell my own mother ... if I had one....”
“It seems quite shocking to you, of course, and—Wait a moment—” Mr. Warner rose and walked toward the door leading to Byan’s office. But he seemed suddenly to change his mind. “I know exactly how you must feel,” he said, returning. “Believe me, my dear young lady, I enter perfectly into your emotions. Shocked susceptibilities! Wounded pride! All perfectly natural, even exemplary. But, Miss Ayer, this is a strange world. And in some aspects a very unsatisfactory one. We have to put up with many things we don’t like. I, for instance. You could not guess the many disagreeable experiences to which I submit daily. I hate them as much as anyone, but business compels me to endure them. Now you, in your position as manager of the Women’s Department—”
“Nothing,” Susannah interrupted steadily, “could induce me knowingly to submit again to what happened last night. I would rather throw up my job. I would rather die.”