CHAPTER XIX
Inanimate things, the poets to the contrary, do not share human moods. When Loring returned to his desk in the office the typewriter, instead of showing the least sympathy, behaved abominably. Ordinarily the letter “J” on a well-constructed machine is on the side, and little used. But this afternoon it seemed to insist on beginning every word, and the effect on the business letters which should have been composed was not beneficial. But this is perhaps explained by the few terse words concluding the pamphlet of directions which accompanied the machine: “No machine ever made is fool proof.” So Loring had the extra task of carefully proofreading all his letters. Being in love always has one of two effects on a man’s work. He either does twice as much work half as well, or half as much work twice as well; but no man truly in love has been able to reverse these, and double both his zeal and efficiency. This kind of inspiration has a singular disregard for detail, and when it does deign to notice the minute side of things, it magnifies them to such an extent that the ultimate aim is likely to be obscured. As proof of the above statement, between luncheon and supper time, Stephen accomplished twice his usual amount of work with a little less than half his customary efficiency.
His work done, Loring banged the cover onto the typewriter with a little more force than was necessary, for if inanimate things cannot share moods, they are still delightful objects on which to vent overwrought feelings. Stephen’s hat was on the table behind the swivel chair, and it was characteristic of him that he used great exertion to secure it without rising, twisting the chair into positions which defied all the laws of gravity. Having set the soft hat at its accustomed slightly tilted angle, he lit his pipe and frowned at the garish appearance of the yellow oak of his desk. Then he rose with the indecisive motion of one who, when on his feet, wonders why he has left his chair. Ordinarily Stephen was a trifle late at supper on account of staying to lock up the office, and to-night from an illogical dread of the thing which he half longed for, half wished to avoid, a talk with Jean, he did not reach the table until all the others had left.
Wah glided in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee which he set before Stephen, together with the choicest selections from the supper which he had as usual saved for him. When Loring rose from the table, leaving the larger portion of his meal uneaten, Wah looked at him reproachfully from the inscrutable depths of his slanting eyes.
Baird Radlett, Jean, and a few others were still gathered on the porch when Stephen stepped outside. They were gazing intently down the valley to the westward at the glorious afterglow in the sky, where, but an instant before, the red rim of the sun had flashed before dipping behind the hills. All were silent with that quietness which is brought forth by moments of absolute beauty. Loring’s step and voice aroused them, and all save Jean turned quickly. Baird saw a color in Jean’s cheeks far richer and softer than the deep rose hue in the skies. He glanced quickly from her to the man standing above her, who was looking down at her with adoration in his gaze. For one second his love for the girl battled with his friendship for the man, and Radlett realized the full bitterness of the sacrifice that he was making. Then friendship conquered, and he comprehended and sympathized with the sorrow which to-night made Loring’s face look singularly old.
Stephen stayed with them only a few minutes before returning to the office to play the old, old game of burying thought beneath routine.
Radlett and Jean were left alone on the steps. Baird watched Stephen until he was hidden by the angle of the office.
“Loring,” he said suddenly, turning to Jean, “has been working fifteen hours a day for the last six months. He cannot stand it. I am afraid for him.”