“And she didn't leave any message?” Then Oliver turned pink at having betrayed himself so easily.
“No-o—she didn't.” The clerk's eyelid drooped a trifle. Those collegy looking boys were certainly hell with women.
“Oh, well—” with a vast attempt to seem careless. “Thanks. Where's the 'phone?”
“Over there” and Oliver followed the direction of the jerked thumb to shut himself up in a booth with his heart, apparently, bent upon doing queer interpretative dances and his mind full of all the most apologetic words in or out of the dictionary. “Hello. Hello. Is this Nancy?”
“This is Mrs. S. R. Ellicott.” The voice seems extremely detached.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Ellicott. This is Oliver—Oliver Crowe, you know. Is Nancy there?”
Nor does it appear inclined toward lengthy conversation—the voice at the other end. “No.”
“Well, when will she be in? I've got to take the five o'clock train Mrs. Ellicott—I've simply got to—I may lose my job if I don't—but I've got to talk to her first—I've got to explain—”
“There can be very little good, I think, in your talking to her Mr. Crowe. She has told me that you both consider the engagement at an end.”
“But that's impossible, Mrs. Ellicott—that's too absurd” Oliver felt too much as if he were fighting for life against something invisible to be careful about his words. “I know we quarrelled last night—but it was all my fault, I didn't mean anything—I was going to call her up the first thing this morning but you see, they wouldn't let me out—”