"I ain't much at writing letters," he went on, "but I'll send you the pictures, and you write and tell me how things are going."
She laughed softly, and followed the zigzag course of the raindrop with her finger.
"I wouldn't have very much to say," she said, speaking with a little hesitation, and without looking around. "Max and I never do much."
"Oh, you can tell how your work goes, and what you do nights."
"We don't do much of anything. Max studies some at night—a man he used to work for gave him a book of civil engineering."
"What do you do?"
"I read some, and then I like to learn things about—oh, about business, and how things are done."
Bannon could not take his eyes from her—he was looking at her hair, and at the curved outline of one cheek, all that he could see of her face. They both stood still, listening to the patter of the rain, and to the steady drip from the other end of the office, where there was a leak in the roof. Once she cleared her throat, as if to speak, but no words came.
There was a stamping outside, and she slipped back to the ledger, as the door flew open. Bannon turned to the blue prints.
Max entered, pausing to knock his cap against the door, and wring it out.