“Hello!” she said, “Sue's out.”
“I don't want Sue. Came to see you, Betty. I'm fired—out of a job—and while it lasts, hilariously happy. How about a bite at the Parisian?”
So they had humorously early tea at the old French restaurant near the Square. Then Betty went up-town on the bus for a little shopping, and Hy walked, at last, back to the office. They had decided to meet again for dinner.
Scripture House loomed before him—long, dingy, grim in the gay sunshine. He stood motionless on the farther curb, staring at it. Had three years of his life been spent, miserably spent, on a treadmill, in that haunt of hypocrisy? Had he been selling his presumably immortal soul on the instalment plan, at forty-five a week? Or was it a hideous dream? Was he dreaming now?
He shuddered. Then, slowly, he walked across the street, deriding to pack up and get out for good just as swiftly as the thing could be done. He was glad, downright glad, that it was his character that had been so crudely assailed. That let him out. He needn't be decent—needn't wait a month to break in a new man—nothing like that! He wondered mildly what the Worm would say, and Peter? It might be necessary to borrow a bit until he could get going again. Though perhaps they would take him back on the old paper until he could find something regular.
The sense of being haunted by a dream grew as he went up in the elevator and walked along the hall. He saw with new eyes the old building he had so long taken for granted—saw the worn hollows in the oak floors, the patched cracks in the plaster; he smelt the old musty odor with new' repugnance; noted the legends on office doors he passed with a wry smile, the Reverend This and the Reverend That, the Society for the Suppression of Such and Such, the commercially religious Somebody & Company.
He had to will his hand to open the door lettered, “My Brother's Keeper; Hubbell Harkness Wilde, D. D.” He had to will his feet to carry him within. But once within, he stood motionless and the queerness seized on him, widened his eyes, caught at his breath. For the place was absolutely still. Not a typewriter sounded. Not an argumentative voice floated out over the seven-foot partitions. It was like a dead place—uncanny, awful. For an instant he considered running; wondered fantastically whether his feet would turn to lead and hold him back as feet do in dreams.
But he stood his ground and looked cautiously about. There within the rail, in the corner, the pretty little telephone girl sat motionless at her switchboard, watching him with eyes that stared stupidly out of a white face.
He stepped to her side—tiptoeing in spite of himself—tried to smile, cleared his throat, started at the sound; then whispered, “For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?” and patted the girl's cheek.
Ordinarily she would have dodged away and looked anxiously about in fear of being seen. Now she did nothing of the sort. After a moment she said, also whispering and quite incoherently—“Is Miss Hardwick going to have your room?”