She freed her hands.
“So we couldn't even have one happy evening!” she said. “I won't quarrel with you, Clay. And I won't be tragic over Graham. If you'll just be human to him, he'll come out all right.”
She went into her bedroom, the heavy lace of her negligee trailing behind her, and closed the door.
Clayton had a visitor the next morning at the mill, a man named Dunbar, who marked on his visitors' slip, under the heading of his business with the head of the concern, the words, “Private and confidential.”
Clayton, looking up, saw a small man, in a suit too large for him, and with ears that projected wide on either side of a shrewd, rather humorous face.
“Mr. Spencer?”
“Yes. Sit down, please.”
Even through the closed window the noise of the mill penetrated. The yard-engine whistled shrilly. The clatter of motor-trucks, the far away roar of the furnaces, the immediate vicinity of many typewriters, made a very bedlam of sound. Mr. Dunbar drew his chair closer, and laid a card on the desk.
“My credentials,” he explained.
Clayton read the card.