“The Milky Way,” said Gregory.
Mrs. Shortman pursed her lips; she found it impossible to habituate herself to Gregory's habit of joking.
They had scant talk for the rest of their journey to the S. R. W. C., where Miss Mallow, at the typewriter, was reading a novel.
“There are several letters for you, Mr. Vigil”
“Mrs. Shortman says I am unpractical,” answered Gregory. “Is that true, Miss Mallow?”
The colour in Miss Mallow's cheeks spread to her sloping shoulders.
“Oh no. You're most practical, only—perhaps— I don't know, perhaps you do try to do rather impossible things, Mr. Vigil.”
“Bilcock Buildings!”
There was a minute's silence. Then Mrs. Shortman at her bureau beginning to dictate, the typewriter started clicking.
Gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands. The voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but Gregory did not stir. Both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him. Their eyes caught each other's and they looked away at once. A few seconds later they were looking at him again. Still Gregory did not stir. An anxious appeal began to creep into the women's eyes.