She was gone before he had finished his sentence—gone with that absurd dimple in the corner of her cheek and the sliding laughter of her eyes.
She had left behind her a curious, restless emptiness, as if the very room itself waited impatiently for her return. It was half an hour before she came back. The town clerk had had to answer three telephone messages and four telegrams. If the outer office had not known that he was there and Miss Waring wasn't, he would have had more interruptions. Nevertheless, the figures had helped Mr. Travers to recover his temper.
He was an expert accountant, and you can take figures upon their face-value. They are not like women; they have no dimples.
Mr. Travers was prepared to be the stern, but just, employer again. He remained seated, and Stella leaned over his shoulder. He had not expected that she would do this.
"What have you had to eat?" he asked. It was not at all what he had intended to say to Stella.
"A cup of tea, two ham sandwiches, and a bun:—such a magnificent spread for seven-pence!" replied Stella, cheerfully. "You've forgotten to put in what the insurance will be—there at the bottom of the page."
Mr. Travers rose to his feet. He was taller than Stella, and he considered that he had a commanding presence. Stella slid back into her seat.
"You ought to have had," said Mr. Travers, with labored quietness, "beefsteak and a glass of port."
"Anybody could tell," said Stella, tranquilly, "that you are an abstemious man, Mr. Travers. Port! Port and steak! You mean porter. All real drinkers know that port is sacred. Bottles of it covered with exquisite cobwebs are kept for choice occasions; they are brought in softly by stately butlers, walking delicately like Agag. It is drunk in companionable splendor, tenderly ministered to by nothing more solid than a walnut, and it follows the courses of the sun. There, you did quite a lot while I was away, and if you don't mind just looking through those landlords' repairing leases on your desk, I dare say I shall have finished this before five."
Mr. Travers opened his mouth, shut it again, and returned to his repairing leases. He was not an employer any more. He was not an icy, mysterious tyrant ruling over a trembling and docile universe: his own secretary had literally told him to run away and play!