So it was—Rosalind! Rosalind—was like that—! His heart gave a quick beat—like a boy’s—and stood still.... Rosalind was like that—for—somebody else.... He stared at the blotter and drew a pad absently toward him.
The office boy stuck his head in the door and drew it back. He shook it at a short, heavy man with a thinnish, black-grey beard who was hovering near. “He told me not to disturb him—not for anybody,” the boy said importantly.
The man took a card from his pocket and wrote on it. “Take him that.” The boy glanced at the name and at the thin, blackish beard. There was a large wart on the man’s chin where the beard did not grow. The boy’s eyes rested on it—and looked away to the card. “I ’ll—ask him—” he said.
The man nodded. “Take him that first.”
The boy went in.
The man walked to the window and looked down; the thick flesh at the back of his neck overlapped a little on the collar of his well-cut coat and the heavy shoulders seemed to shrug themselves under the smooth fit.
The boy’s eyes surveyed the back respectfully. “You’re to come in,” he says.
The man turned and went in and Eldridge Walcott looked up. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“That’s all right.” The man sat down a little heavily—as if he were tired. “That’s all right. I waited because I wanted to see you. I want some one to do—a piece of work—for me—”
“Yes?”