Janet, who had risen, spoke up.
“Why, he's been making the Hampton 'survey.' You wrote him you'd see him—don't you remember, Mr. Ditmar?”
“Don't go!” exclaimed Ditmar. “You can't tell what those confounded reformers will accuse you of if you don't have a witness.”
Janet sat down again. The sharpness of Ditmar's tone was an exhilarating reminder of the fact that, in dealing with strangers, he had come more or less to rely on her instinctive judgment; while the implied appeal of his manner on such occasions emphasized the pleasurable sense of his dependence, of her own usefulness. Besides, she had been curious about the 'survey' at the time it was first mentioned, she wished to hear Ditmar's views concerning it. Mr. Siddons proved to be a small and sallow young man with a pointed nose and bright, bulbous brown eyes like a chipmunk's. Indeed, he reminded one of a chipmunk. As he whisked himself in and seized Ditmar's hand he gave a confused impression of polite self-effacement as well as of dignity and self-assertion; he had the air of one who expects opposition, and though by no means desiring it, is prepared to deal with it. Janet smiled. She had a sudden impulse to drop the heavy book that lay on the corner of the desk to see if he would jump.
“How do you do, Mr. Ditmar?” he said. “I've been hoping to have this pleasure.”
“My secretary, Miss Bumpus,” said Ditmar.
Mr. Siddons quivered and bowed. Ditmar, sinking ponderously into his chair, seemed suddenly, ironically amused, grinning at Janet as he opened a drawer of his desk and offered the visitor a cigar.
“Thanks, I don't smoke,” said Mr. Siddons.
Ditmar lit one for himself.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.