Up the staircase tripped a little lady—a pleasant vision of a silk blouse, butter-coloured lace, golden hair, fawn gloves, and tan bottines, leaving behind her an atmosphere redolent of the latest fashionable perfume mingled with the more delicate scent of the Marechal Niel roses in her corsage.
She knocked at the door, and, as there was no response from within, turned the handle.
"May I come in, please?" she said laughingly.
A young man was standing in a corner of the room opposite the telegraphic machine, from which the "tape" was issuing with a monotonous click. On this "tape"—a narrow strip of paper seemingly endless, which fell on the floor in serpentine coils—were inscribed at regular intervals some cabalistic characters unintelligible to the general public, but full of meaning to the initiated.
He turned at the sound of the voice. "What! Dolly?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Jack; didn't you expect me?"
"Of course—of course," answered Jack Cameron, rather confusedly.
The girl crossed the room, and, taking both the hands of the young man, looked into his eyes.
"You are worried," said she softly.
"Oh, only a little. One is bound to have worries in business, especially when the market's feverish. But I'm awfully glad you've come. I shall forget all my bothers now you are here."