Stevens was still under thirty, she concluded, though she had heard he had been with the company for ten years. A silent, sharp-featured, tall young fellow with chilly blue eyes, who had the name in the office of keeping himself to himself and being all business.
The old man, having glanced over and signed the letters, passed his verdict on her work—"Hmm, hmm, Miss Connor, you may move your things to Miss Belmont's desk. And here's a note——"
When an author conquers a stage manager; or Atchison rises 4% the very next day; or the Cubs bat it out in the tenth on a darkening September afternoon; when on the third and last trial, it's a boy; or when Handsome Harry Matinee returns you his curled likeness signed; or you first sip Mai Wein, you know what it is to move your things to Miss Belmont's desk.
"And here's a note," continued the old man, without the gap which we have made to put in analogues, "to Mr. Edward Miles—I'd better dictate this one myself—'Dear Mr. Miles: I should be happy to have you call—' No, strike that out. 'In response to your letter of even date, I should be glad to see you at any time that suits you, here in my office—' no, make it three o'clock to-morrow afternoon—'to confer over the subject of the Senatorial campaign in your district.' Read what you've got."
Georgia did so.
The old man changed his eyeglasses. "Maybe you'd better telephone him instead," he said. "It's Ed Miles, the politician. You can probably locate him at——"
"Yes, sir, I know," suggested Georgia.
"And get Mr. Somers on the phone—Mr. Somers does some of our legal work——"
"Yes, sir."
"And ask him to be here at the same time. Make a note of it on my list of appointments."