“Think we rather had them, eh, Graham?”
“Think you did, sir. Carried them off their feet. Pretty, isn't it?” He held up the shell-case. “If a fellow could only forget what the damned things are for!”
“They are to help to end the war,” said Clayton, crisply. “Don't forget that, boy.” And went back to his steady dictation.
Graham went out of the building into the mill yard. The noise always irritated him. He had none of Clayton's joy and understanding of it. To Clayton each sound had its corresponding activity. To Graham it was merely din, an annoyance to his ears, as the mill yard outraged his fastidiousness. But that morning he found it rather more bearable. He stooped where, in front of the store, the storekeeper had planted a tiny garden. Some small late-blossoming chrysanthemums were still there and he picked one and put it in his buttonhole.
His own office was across the yard. He dodged in front of a yard locomotive, picked his way about masses of lumber and the general litter of all mill yards, and opened the door of his own building. Just inside his office a girl was sitting on a straight chair, her hat a trifle crooked, and her eyes red from crying. He paused in amazement.
“Why, Miss Klein!” he said. “What's the matter?”
She was rather a pretty girl, even now. She stood up at his voice and made an effort to straighten her hat.
“Haven't you heard?” she asked.
“I haven't heard anything that ought to make Miss Anna Klein weep of a nice, frosty morning in October. Unless—” he sobered, for her grief was evident. “Tell me about it.”
“Father has given up his job.”