The door opening from the private Office called her sharp up. Miss Lonergan came in, seated herself with fingers already rustling at her pad. Mr. Johns loomed before her.
“Good morning. Good morning.”
He stood with his feet apart and his toes turned out. Fanny observed how his knees flexed inward, how his legs aburst in their drab trowsers flexed and gave her mind the same thought as his ruffled hands and hair: made her smile.
“Well now,” he was saying, “you two said anything yet to each other? get acquainted yet? no explanations?” He turned from the one woman to the other. “You’ll be friends. O all of us’ll be friends. What could be more companionable after all than to engage in the business of soft drinks ... making Delight Drinks for the thirsty people....”
Miss Lonergan struck a key of her machine. Click, she smiled.—I can’t wait for your nonsense. Click clicket click....
“You see,” went on Mr. Johns, “the people get hot and what cools em off is ice. But they wont pay for ice. Not much! Ice is ice ... nameless. We don’t furnish ice. They pay for our lovely game of names,” he handed Fanny a list. “So we send the names in the liquid forms, to the candy men and the soda men: and they put in the ice: and the ice cools the people: and the people pay us.”
He flourished clumsily. His face glowed open about his clear blue eyes. “Will you come, Mrs. Luve?” His head serious now thrust back. “I want to show you the girls you are here to take care of.”
* * *
“Why I live on Twenty-First Street. That’s right near.”
“Let’s walk,” said Clara.