"Mr. Graves is out there and wants to see you particular, Mr. Hart. Shall I show him into your office?"
"Ask him to wait," the young architect ordered.
After he had smoked and stared for a few moments longer he turned to Cook.
"What did we specify those I-beams for the Canostota? Were they forty-twos or sixties?"
Without raising his hand from the minute lines of the linen sheet, the draughtsman grunted:—
"Don't remember just what. Weren't forty-twos. Nothing less than sixties ever got out of this office, I guess. May be eighties. What's the matter?"
"Um," the architect reflected, knocking his cigarette against the table. "It makes a difference in the sizes what make they are, doesn't it?"
"It don't make any difference about the weights!" And the draughtsman turned to his linen sheet with a shrug of the shoulders that said, "You ought to know that much by this time!"
The architect continued to stare out of the murky window.
"When is Harmon coming back?"