"I want to see Hal Surtaine," she said with sullen insistence.
Shaking himself out of his chair, the associate editor started across the room to the telephone at Hal's desk, but halted sharply in front of the girl.
"You've been drinking," he said.
"What's it to you if I have?"
The man's hand fell on her shoulder. There was no familiarity in the act; only comradeship. Comradeship in the voice, also, and concern, as he said, "Cut it, Neal, cut it. There's nothing in it. You're too good stuff to throw yourself away on that."
"Don't you worry about me." She shook off his hand, and seated herself.
"Still working at the Certina joint?"
"No. I'm not working."
"See here, Neal: what made you quit us?"
The girl withheld speech back of tight-pressed lips.