He laughed tolerantly. “Oh, take it along, if you want to—Nobody else wants it.”
John followed her to the table. “I ’ll carry it for you, Edith.”
She slipped out the paper she had been at work on and began gathering up the trifles from her table.
When he set down the machine in the president’s office, a ripple of eyebrows passed it by—glances too busy for comment. The clatter of the typewriters rose and hummed. The hive could not pause for a worker more or less. She slipped into her place with a little smile and nod, waiting while John shifted the telephone connection and swung a bulb, with its green shade, conveniently in place.
The little bell rang sharply and she leaned to the receiver. “Hello!”
John crossed to the young woman by the window. She had finished a sheet and was drawing it out with a quick swirl.
“All done?” he asked pleasantly.
She ignored him, rubbing out an offending word and blowing away the black fuzz before she looked up. “What is it?” she said sharply. Her hair, which was red and crisp, glinted as she turned her head.
John’s eyes followed it with a little look of pleasure. There was something about that color that always made him happy. He did not know this and it had never occurred to him to be diplomatic. But a hint of a smile crossed the girl’s mouth.
“Well?” She was looking at him tolerantly.