“Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than an editor-in-chief.”
The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now recalled that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to their efforts to involve him in conversation.
He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed from man to man in the office.
“Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and wine and things.”
“What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!”
One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone:
“How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?”
Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained surprise on his face.
“Who?” he inquired.
“Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of course.”