The clock on the wall showed seventeen minutes past eight. The night wind blew some papers from Charley Newton’s desk in the outer office where the door had been left open.
“Nathan! Something horrible’s happened! Can’t you tell me?”
“Milly! You know how much trouble father and I are always having around the shop, here?”
“Yes! ’Course I know! So does everybody!”
“It’s reached the point, Milly, where I can’t stand it any longer.”
“All the fellers and girls would follow you out to a person, if you was to ask ’em.”
“I’m especially thinking—of—home. You can imagine, can’t you, that if dad quarrels with me here, he acts the same way at home. Well, he does, anyhow! And I’m sick of it!”
“Then I should think you’d get out and,” she dropped her eyes, adding unsteadily, “get a home o’ your own.”
“I—haven’t—any one—to do it with, Milly.”
His face returned to his arms. “I thought I had, but I haven’t.”