Grove Evans read that appeal through and smiled at its naïveté. Then he looked across his office to his partner, William Brierly, a younger man with pompadour hair and an habitual air of immense self-satisfaction. Brierly was reading the same story in another newspaper. He, too, looked up and smiled.
“You know this girl, don’t you, Grove?” Brierly asked. “By George, she must be interesting. A new kind of female maniac, eh?”
“You’ve met her,” responded Evans. “She was at the Country Club during trophy match last fall. Carries herself like a queen. I remember your raving about her.”
“Ah,” Brierly’s derisive smile faded. “That girl, eh? Say, I saw her make the ninth hole in three. That girl! Say, look here, Grove,” he struck the open paper with his palm, “does she mean this stuff?”
Evans lighted a cigarette before replying. “She sure does,” he stated finally. “I was at the Randalls when she delivered her ultimatum and took to the war path. Talk about a jolt! After she left us, you could hear the shades of night falling. For ten minutes we sat there exhibiting all the vivacity of a deaf and dumb man at a Quaker prayer-meeting.”
Brierly laughed. “Oh, well,” he said. “She’ll do what all these suffragettes do—run around in a circle, yell herself tired, then marry some fellow and forget it.”
He yawned. Evans turned to the huge safe and got out a heavy packet of papers.
“What are you doing, Grove?” Brierly demanded lazily.
“Nothing,” responded Evans curtly. “Just looking over some of our shady leases.”
“Hello!” said Brierly, getting on his feet. “Are you taking this thing seriously?”