I
It was her complexion that made it hard to believe she was as scared as she said she was.
“Maybe I haven’t made it clear,” she persisted, twisting her fingers some more though I had asked her to stop. “I’m not making anything up, really I’m not. If they framed me once, isn’t that a good enough reason to think they are doing it again?”
If her cheek color had been from a drugstore, with the patches showing because the fear in her heart was using extra blood for internal needs, I would probably have been affected more. But at first sight of her I had been reminded of a picture on a calendar hanging on the wall of Sam’s Diner on Eleventh Avenue, a picture of a round-faced girl with one hand holding a pail and the other hand resting on the flank of a cow she had just milked or was going to milk. It was her to a T, in skin tint, build, and innocence.
She quit the finger-twisting to make tight little fists and perch them on her thigh fronts. “Is he really such a puffed-up baboon?” she demanded. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes, and I’ve got to see him first!” Suddenly she was out of the chair, on her feet. “Where is he, upstairs?”
Having suspected she was subject to impulses, I had, instead of crossing to my desk, held a position between her and the door to the hall.
“Give it up,” I advised her. “When you stand up you tremble, I noticed that when you came in, so sit down. I’ve tried to explain, Miss Rooney, that while this room is Mr. Wolfe’s office, the rest of this building is his home. From nine to eleven in the morning, and from four to six in the afternoon, he is absolutely at home, up in the plant rooms with his orchids, and bigger men than you have had to like it. But, what I’ve seen of you, I think possibly you’re nice, and I’ll do you a favor.”
“What?”
“Sit down and quit trembling.”