When his secretary had departed he resumed his reverie, to be roused from it at twelve-thirty o’clock by the soft click of the latch as his office door was gently opened. He turned and observed a girl who stood in the general office, with her head and one shoulder thrust into Dan’s office.
“May I come in?” she queried.
“Of course you may, Maisie. You’re as welcome as a gale in the doldrums. The best seat in my office isn’t half worthy of you.” He rose and took her hand as she advanced into the room.
“Doing a little ground and lofty dreaming, I observe.” The girl—her name was Maisie Morrison, and she was the niece of Casson, the senior member of the firm—seated herself in a swivel desk chair and looked brightly up at him as he stood before her, his somewhat long grave face alight with approval and welcome.
“It’s very nice of you to pay me this little visit, Maisie,” he declared. “And I like that hat you’re wearing. Indeed, I don’t think I have ever seen you looking more—er—lookable!”
It was like him to ignore her implied query and voice the thought in his mind.
“Sit down, Abraham Lincoln, do, please,” she urged.
He obeyed. “Why do you call me Abraham Lincoln?”
“Oh, you’re so long and loose-jointed and raw-boned and lantern-jawed! Your shoulders are bowed just a little, as if from bearing great burdens, and when I caught a glimpse of your face, as I entered, it was in repose and incredibly sad and wistful. Really, Dan, you’re a very plain man and very dolorous until you smile, and then you’re easy to look at. Your right eyebrow is about a quarter of an inch higher than your left and that lends whimsicality to your smile, even when you are feeling far from whimsical.”
His chin sank low on his breast and he appeared to be pondering something. “Perhaps,” he said aloud, but addressing himself nevertheless, “it’s spring fever. But then I have it in the summer, autumn and winter also. I want to go away. Where, I do not know.”