"But," he said, raising a rueful eyebrow, "how shall I make Cousin Mary 'understand' your performances?"
"By staying at home and keeping me in order! Don't go away."
It was the everlasting feminine: "I need you!" There was no "new woman" in it; no self-sufficiency; nothing but the old, dependent arrogance that has charmed and held the man by its flattering selfishness ever since the world began.
He was opening the office door, but she laid a frankly anxious hand on his arm. "Promise me you won't go!"
He would not commit himself. "It depends; if you get married, and shut up shop, you won't want a business adviser."
"I sha'n't get married!" she said, and blushed to her temples.
Mr. Weston saw the color, and his face, as he closed her door and stood waiting for the elevator, dulled a little. "She's head over ears in love with him. Well, he's a very decent chap; it's an excellent match for her,—Oh," he apologized to the elevator boy, on suddenly finding himself on the street floor; "I forgot to get off! You'll have to take me up again." In his own office he was distinctly curt.
"I am very busy," he said, checking his stenographer's languid remark about a telephone call; "I am going to write letters. Don't let any one interrupt me"—and the door of his private office closed in her face.
"What's the matter with him?" the young lady asked herself, idly; then took out her vanity glass and adjusted her marcel wave.