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CHAPTER IX
IT WILL NEVER DO

If Miss Winthrop ever had more than a nodding acquaintance with Mr. Pendleton, she gave no indication of that fact when she came in the next morning. With a face as blank as a house closed for the season, she clicked away at her typewriter until noon, and then hurried out to lunch as if that were a purely business transaction also. Don followed a little sooner than usual. The little restaurant was not at all crowded to-day, but she was not there. He waited ten minutes, and as he waited the conviction grew that she did not intend to come.

Don went out and began an investigation. He visited five similar places in the course of the next fifteen minutes, and in the last one he found her. She was seated in a far corner, and she was huddled up as if trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. As he strode to her side with uplifted hat, she shrank away like a hunted thing finding itself trapped.

“What did you run away for?” he demanded.

“What did you hunt me up for?” she replied.

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“And I came here because I did not want to see you.”

“Now, look here–” he began.

“So I should think you’d go along and leave me alone,” she interrupted.

“If I did that, then I’d never know what the trouble is all about,” he explained.

“Well, what of it?”

“May I sit down?”

There was an empty chair next to her.

“I can’t prevent you, but I’ve told you I want to be alone.”

“When you look that way, you’re just as much alone as if I weren’t here,” he returned, as he took the chair. “And every one knows it.”

She gave a swift glance about the room, as if expecting to find half the crowd looking at her.

“Maybe they are too polite to let on,” he continued; “but I know just what they are saying to themselves. They are saying, ‘She certainly hasn’t much use for him. You’d think he’d take the tip and get out.’”

“You don’t seem to care much, then, about what they say.”

“I don’t care a hang,” he admitted.

She pushed her plate away as if ready to go.

“Wait a minute,” he pleaded. “It doesn’t seem like you to go off and leave a man in the dark. How in thunder am I going to know any better next time if you don’t tell me where I made the break?”

“I don’t believe you’d know if I did tell you,” she answered more gently.

“The least you can do is to try.”

She did not want to tell him. If he was sincere–and the longer she talked with him, the more convinced she was that this was the case–then she did not wish to disillusionize him.

“The least you can do is to give me a chance,” he persisted.

“The mistake came in the beginning, Mr. Pendleton,” she said, with an effort. “And it was all my fault. You–you seemed so different from a lot of men who come into the office that I–well, I wanted to see you get started straight. In the three years I’ve been there I’ve picked up a lot of facts that aren’t much use to me because–because I’m just Miss Winthrop. So I thought I could pass them on.”

“That was mighty white of you,” he nodded.

The color flashed into her cheeks.

“I thought I could do that much without interfering in any other way with either of our lives.”

“Well?”

“There were two or three things I didn’t reckon with,” she answered.

“What were they?” he demanded.

“Blake is one of them.”

“Blake?” His face brightened with sudden understanding. “Then the trouble is all about that box of candy?”

“You shouldn’t have sent it. You should have known better than to send it. You–had no right.”

“But that was nothing. You were so darned good to me about the typewriting and it was all I could think of.”

“So, you see,” she concluded, “it won’t do. It won’t do at all.”

“I don’t see,” he returned.

“Then it’s because you didn’t see the way Blake looked at me,” she said.

“Yes, I saw,” he answered. “I could have hit him for it. But I fixed that.”

“You–fixed that?” she gasped.

“I certainly did. I told him I sent the box, and told him why.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Then they’ll all know, and–what am I going to do? Oh, what am I going to do?”

It was a pitiful cry. He did not understand why it was so intense, because he did not see what she saw–the gossip increasing in maliciousness; the constant watching and nods and winks, until in the end it became intolerable either to her or to Farnsworth. Nor was that the possible end. To leave an office under these conditions was a serious matter–a matter so serious as to affect her whole future.

“Now, see here,” he pleaded. “Don’t take it so hard. You’re making too much of it. Blake isn’t going to talk any more. If he does–”

She raised her head.

“If he does, there isn’t anything you can do about it.”

“I’ll bet there is.”

“No–no–no. There isn’t. I know! But you mustn’t come here any more. And you mustn’t talk to me any more. Then perhaps they’ll forget.”

He grew serious.

“It seems too bad if it’s got to be that way,” he answered.

“I ought to have known,” she said.

“And I ought to have known, too. I was a fool to send that box into the office, but I wanted you to get it before you went home.”

She raised her eyes to his a moment. Then a queer, tender expression softened her mouth.

“This is the end of it,” she answered. “And now I’m glad you did not know any better.”

She rose to go, and then she noticed that he had not lunched.

“I’ll wait here until you come back with your sandwich,” she said.

“I don’t want a sandwich,” he protested.

“Please hurry.”

So she waited there until he came back with his lunch, and then she held out her hand to him.

“To-morrow you go to the old place,” she said, “and I’ll come here.”

CHAPTER X
DICTATION

As far as Don was concerned, Miss Winthrop, instead of merely changing her lunch-place, might just as well have taken a steamer and sailed for Europe. He saw her at her desk every morning when he came in, and she always looked up and nodded–as she did, for that matter, to every one, including Blake. Then she turned to her work, and that was the end of her until the next morning. As far as he was able to judge, Miss Winthrop had completely and utterly forgotten the preceding weeks and even the incident that led to this disastrous climax.

But the situation that left her so unaffected got on Don’s nerves. He was by nature too much of a social being to endure being left to himself very long. This lunching alone day after day was a dreary affair. The egg sandwiches began to pall upon his taste, and he felt that he could not have eaten an éclair had he been starving.

Sometimes he had only a cup of coffee, and then hurried out and wandered about the streets for the remainder of his hour. It was a long hour–a tedious hour. Most of the time he spent in the hope that, by some lucky chance, he might meet her. He did not hunt for her. He avoided her usual course. If he met her, it must be honestly by chance. But he never met her. He passed thousands of other young women, but he never met her. He used to return to the office sometimes doubting that she existed. But at one o’clock she was always there back of her machine.

He spent a good deal of time that week with Powers; and seemed to make some progress. He had now a definite knowledge of bonds and notes, and had even mastered, in a general way, the important details of some of the issues the house was handling. Twice he had taken home his papers and actually spent several hours upon them. Some of them he knew almost by heart. It was encouraging, but it would have been much more encouraging if he had been able to tell Miss Winthrop about it.

Somehow, he did not feel that he really knew those things until he had told her he knew them. This was a curious frame of mind to be in, but it was a fact.

As far as he was concerned, he would have broken through this embargo long ago. But she had made him see, and see clearly, that he was not alone concerned. That was the whole trouble. If Blake talked only about him, and let it go at that, no harm would be done.

One Friday morning, toward eleven o’clock, Blake was out of the office, and Don had just finished a long talk with Powers, when he noticed that Miss Winthrop was not for the moment busy.

Don had an inspiration. He caught Powers just as he was about to leave.

“Look here, old man,” he said in an undertone. “Is there any objection to my dictating a letter to Miss Winthrop?”

“Why, no,” answered Powers. “She’s there for the use of the staff.”

“Thought I’d like to have her take down some of the things we’ve been talking about,” he explained.

“Good idea,” nodded Powers.

A minute later Miss Winthrop caught her breath as Don calmly walked to her desk, seated himself in a chair near her, and, producing a circular from his pocket, followed Blake’s formula in asking:–

“Can you take a letter for me, Miss Winthrop?”

Almost as automatically as she answered Blake, she replied:–

“Certainly.”

She reached for her notebook and pencil.

“My dear Madame,” he began.

“Any address, Mr. Pendleton?”

“I don’t know the exact address,” he answered. “Just address it to the little restaurant in the alley.”

She looked up.

“Mr. Pendleton!”

“To the little restaurant in the alley,” he continued calmly. “Do you use Madame or Mademoiselle to an unmarried lady?” he inquired.

“I suppose this is a strictly business letter, or you would not be dictating it in office hours,” she returned.

“I’ll make it partly business,” he nodded. “Ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Pendleton; but I don’t think–”

“Who is introducing the personal element now?” he demanded.

“Ready, Mr. Pendleton.”

My dear Madame:–

In reply to your advice that I acquire certain information relative to the securities which our firm is offering for sale, I beg to report that, after several talks with our Mr. Powers, I am prepared to give you any information you may desire.

“Try me on one of them?” he suggested, interrupting himself.

She raised her eyes and glanced anxiously around the office. Then she replied, as if reading from her notebook:–

“You forget, Mr. Pendleton, that I am taking a letter from you.”

“Try me on one of the bonds,” he insisted.

“You mustn’t act like this. Really, you mustn’t.”

“Then I’ll dictate some more. Ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Pendleton.”

Our Miss Winthrop has just informed me that you have lost your interest in the whole matter.

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Pendleton,” she interrupted.

“What did you say, then?”

“I said that here in the office–”

“Oh, I see. Then scratch that sentence out.”

She scratched it out.

“Have it read this way”:–

Our Miss Winthrop informs me–

“Why need you bring me in at all?” she asked.

“Please don’t interrupt.”

– informs me that, owing to the lack of privacy in the office, you cannot discuss these matters here with me. Therefore I suggest that, as long as the luncheon hour is no longer convenient (for the same reasons), an arrangement be made whereby I may have the pleasure of dining with you some evening.

Miss Winthrop’s brows came together.

“That is absolutely impossible!” she exclaimed.

If the idea does not appeal to you as a pleasure,–

he went on in the most impersonal of tones,–

perhaps you would be willing to consider it as a favor. Our Miss Winthrop informs me that the suggestion is impossible, but personally I don’t see how anything could be more easily arranged. I would prefer Saturday evening, as on that date I am quite sure of being sufficiently well provided with ducats–

“You’d better save them,” she interrupted.

– to insure a proper settlement with the waiter,–

he concluded his sentence.

Please let me know, then, where I may meet you on Saturday evening next.

“I told you that was quite impossible, Mr. Pendleton,” she reminded him.

“You haven’t told me why.”

“There are a hundred reasons, and they can’t be discussed here.”

“That’s it,” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s the whole trouble! We can’t discuss things here; so let’s have our little dinner, and then there’ll be all the chance in the world for you to tell me why you shouldn’t come.”

“You’re absurd,” she declared, with an involuntary smile.

Hoping for the favor of an early reply,–

he concluded,–

I beg to remain, Madame, most sincerely yours.

“Is that all?”

“You might add this postscript”:–

I shall be at the Harvard Club at seven to-night, and a ’phone message there might be the most convenient way of replying.

“You don’t really wish this typed, Mr. Pendleton?”

“I think it best,” he replied as he rose, “unless you’re too tired?”

“I’m never tired in business hours.”

He returned to his desk; in a few seconds he heard the click of her machine.

Miss Winthrop did not stop at the delicatessen store that night, but went direct to her room. She removed her hat and coat, and then sat down, chin in hands, to think this problem out.

She had missed Pendleton at the luncheon hour to a distinctly discomfiting degree. Naturally enough, she held him wholly responsible for that state of mind. Her life had been going along smoothly until he took it upon himself to come into the office. There had been no complications–no worries. She was earning enough to provide her with a safe retreat at night, and to clothe and feed her body; and this left her free, within certain accepted limits, to do as she pleased. This was her enviable condition when Mr. Pendleton came along–came from Heaven knew where, and took up his position near her desk. Then he had happened upon her at the little restaurant. And he was hungry and had only thirteen cents.

Perhaps right there was where she had made her mistake. It appeared that a woman could not be impersonally decent to a man without being held personally responsible. If she did not telephone him to-night, Pendleton would be disappointed, and, being disappointed, Heaven only knew what he would do.

Under the circumstances, perhaps the wisest thing she could do was to meet him this once and make him clearly understand that she was never to meet him again. Pendleton was young, and he had not been long enough in the office to learn the downtown conventions. It was her fault that she had interested herself in him in the first place. It was her fault that she had allowed him to lunch with her. It was her fault that she had not been strictly businesslike with him in the office. So she would have dinner with him, and that would end it.

She had some tea and crackers, and at half-past six put on her things and took a short walk. At seven she went into a public pay station, rang up the Harvard Club, and called for Mr. Pendleton. When she heard his voice her cheeks turned scarlet.

“If you insist I’ll come to-morrow night,” she informed him. “But–”

“Say, that’s fine!” he interrupted.

“But I want you to understand that I don’t approve of it.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he assured her. “Where may I call for you?”

“I–I don’t know.”

“Where do you live?”

She gave her address.

“Then I’ll call there.”

“Very well,” she answered.

“Now, I call that mighty good of you,” he ran on. “And–”

“Good-night,” she concluded sharply.

She hung up the receiver and went back to her room in anything but a comfortable frame of mind.

CHAPTER XI
STEAK, WITH MUSHROOMS AND ADVICE

All of Miss Winthrop that occupied a desk in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves on the next day was that for which Farnsworth was paying a weekly wage of twelve dollars. From the moment she entered that morning until she left that afternoon she made this perfectly clear to every one, including Don. But he also was busy. He had determined to make himself letter perfect on several bond issues. To this end he worked as hard as ever he had the day before a final examination. Besides this, Farnsworth found three or four errands for him to do, which he accomplished with dispatch. All that week Farnsworth had used him more and more–a distinctly encouraging sign. Don knew offhand now the location of some ten or fifteen offices, and was received in them as the recognized representative of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. In some places he was even known by name and addressed as Mr. Pendleton–which filled him with considerable pride.

Don went direct to his house from the office, dressed, and went to the club.

“If any one rings me up, get the name,” he ordered the doorman.

He avoided the crowd before the bar, and went upstairs to the library. He had brought his circulars with him, and now went over them once again in order to refresh his memory on some of the details. He was as anxious about getting this right as if Miss Winthrop were a prospective customer. Perhaps she might be. Women invested money, and if he was persuasive enough he might sell her a thousand-dollar bond. If he did not sell one to her, he might sell a few to Barton. Barton was always investing money–investing the Pendleton money, in fact. He might suggest Barton to Farnsworth, and drop around and see him to-morrow. Then Barton might suggest some one else. Before night he might in this way sell a couple of dozen of these bonds. He grew excited at the idea. He felt a new instinct stirring within him.

Don had never sold anything in his life except a few old clothes to second-hand clothes men in Cambridge. Strictly speaking, that was more in the nature of a gift than a sale: for a hundred dollars’ worth of clothes, he received perhaps ten dollars, which he felt obliged to spend on his friends at the first opportunity.

Don had always been a buyer–a talent that required neither preparation nor development. Money had always passed from him to some one else. This was pleasant enough, but undramatic. There was no clash; it called for no effort on his part. To reverse all this and watch the money pass in the other direction–from some one else to him–impressed him as a pleasant variation.

At seven o’clock Don replaced his circulars in his pocket and went downstairs. Wadsworth passed him, and for a moment Don was tempted to stop him and try out his knowledge of bonds on him. The club, however, was hardly the place for that. But if ever he met Wadsworth on the street he would see what he could do. Wadsworth had never been more than an acquaintance of his, but now he saw in him a prospective customer.

Don stepped into a taxi at the door and gave the driver the address supplied by Miss Winthrop. The cab after a little came to a stop before one of several entrances in a long brick block. Before Don had time to reach the door Miss Winthrop stepped out. He had rather hoped for an opportunity to meet some of her family.

“Am I late?” he inquired anxiously.

He could not account in any other way for the fact that she had hurried out before he had a chance to send in his card.

“No,” she answered. “Did you come in that?”

She was looking at the taxi.

He nodded, and stood at the door, ready to assist her in.

“Well, you may send it away now,” she informed him.

“But–”

“I won’t go in it,” she insisted firmly.

“Afraid it will break down?”

“Are you going to send it away?”

Without further argument he paid the driver and sent him off.

“It isn’t right to waste money like that,” she told him.

“Oh, that was the trouble? But it wouldn’t have cost more than a couple of dollars to have gone back with him.”

“Two dollars! That’s carfare for three weeks.”

“Of course, if you look at it that way. But here we are away uptown, and–hanged if I know how to get out.”

He looked around, as bewildered as a lost child. She could not help laughing.

“If you’re as helpless as that I don’t see how you ever get home at night,” she said.

He looked in every direction, but he did not see a car line. He turned to her.

“I won’t help you,” she said, shaking her head.

“Then we’ll have to walk until we come to the Elevated,” he determined.

“All right,” she nodded. “Only, if you don’t go in the right direction you will walk all night before you come to the Elevated.”

“I can ask some one, can’t I?”

“I certainly would before I walked very far.”

“Then I’m going to ask you.”

He raised his hat.

“I beg pardon, madame, but would you be so good–”

“Oh, turn to the right,” she laughed. “And do put on your hat.”

It was a quiet little French restaurant of the better kind to which he took her–a place he had stumbled on one evening, and to which he occasionally went when the club menu did not appeal to him. Jacques had reserved a table in a corner, and had arranged there the violets that Monsieur Pendleton had sent for this purpose. On the whole, it was just as well Miss Winthrop did not know this, or of the tip that was to lead to a certain kind of salad and to an extravagant dish with mushrooms to come later. It is certain that Monsieur Pendleton knew how to arrange a dinner from every other but the economical end.

Don was very much himself to-night, and in an exceedingly good humor. In no time he made her also feel very much herself and put her into an equally good humor. Her cares, her responsibilities, her fears, vanished as quickly as if the last three or four years had taught her nothing. She had started with set lips, and here she was with smiling ones. In the half-hour that she waited in her room for him, she had rehearsed a half-dozen set speeches; now she did not recall one of them.

Don suggested wine, but she shook her head. She had no need of wine. It was wine enough just to be out of her room at night; wine enough just to get away from the routine of her own meals; wine enough just not to be alone; wine enough just to get away from her own sex for a little.

Don chatted on aimlessly through the anchovies, the soup, and fish, and she enjoyed listening to him. He was the embodiment of youth, and he made even her feel like a care-free girl of sixteen again. This showed in her face, in the relaxed muscles about her mouth, and in her brightened eyes.

Then, during the long wait for the steak and mushrooms, his face became serious, and he leaned across the table.

“By the way,” he began, “the house has received a new allotment of bonds; I want to tell you about them.”

He had his facts well in hand, and he spoke with conviction and an unconventionality of expression that made her listen. She knew a good salesman when she heard one, whether she was familiar with the particular subject-matter or not. The quality of salesmanship really had nothing to do with the subject-matter. A good salesman can sell anything. It has rather to do with that unknown gift which distinguishes an actor able to pack a house from an actor with every other quality able only to half fill a house. It has nothing to do with general intelligence; it has nothing to do with conscientious preparation; it has nothing to do with anything but itself. It corresponds to what in a woman is called charm, and which may go with a pug nose or freckles or a large mouth. But it cannot be cultivated. It either is or is not.

It was the mushrooms and steak that interrupted him. Jacques was trying to draw his attention to the sizzling hot platter which he was holding for his inspection–a work of art in brown and green. Ordinarily Monsieur Pendleton took some time to appreciate his efforts. Now he merely nodded:–

“Good.”

Jacques was somewhat disappointed.

“Madame sees it?” he ventured.

Madame, who was sitting with her chin in her hands, staring across the table at Monsieur, started.

“Yes,” she smiled. “It is beautiful.”

But, when Jacques turned away to carve, she continued to stare again at Mr. Pendleton.

“It’s in you,” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a chance you have!”

“You think I’ll do?”

“I think that in two years you’ll be outselling any one in the office,” she answered.

His face flushed at the praise.

“That’s straight?”

“That’s straight,” she nodded. “And within another year Farnsworth will pay you anything you demand.”

“Ten thousand?”

“A gift like yours is worth that to the house–if you don’t spoil it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I mean you must keep it fresh and clean and free, and not mix it up with money,” she ran on eagerly. “You must keep right on selling for the fun of the game and not for the gain. The gain will come fast enough. Don’t worry about that. But if you make it the end, it may make an end of your gift. And you mustn’t get foolish with success. And you mustn’t–oh, there are a hundred ways of spoiling it all.”

It was her apparent sure knowledge of these things that constantly surprised him.

“How do you know?” he demanded.

“Because I’ve seen and heard. All I can do is to stop, look, and listen, isn’t it?”

“And warn the speeders?” he laughed.

“If I could do that much it would be something,” she answered wistfully.

“Will you warn me?”

“I’m warning you now.”

She met his eyes with a puzzled frown.

“I’ve seen a lot of men start right, but they don’t stay right. Why don’t they?”

“But a lot of them do,” he answered.

“And they are the kind that just stay. I hate that kind. I hate people who just stay. That’s why I hate myself sometimes.”

He looked up at her quickly. It was the first indication he had that she was not continually in an unbroken state of calm content. He caught her brown eyes grown suddenly full, as if they themselves had been startled by the unexpected exclamation.

“What’s that you said?” he demanded.

She tried to laugh, but she was still too disconcerted to make it a successful effort. She was not often goaded into as intimate a confession as this.

“It isn’t worth repeating,” she answered uneasily.

“You said you hated yourself sometimes.”

“The steak is very, very good,” she answered, smiling.

“Then you aren’t hating yourself now?”

“No, no,” she replied quickly. “It’s only when I get serious and–please don’t let’s be serious.”

The rest of the dinner was very satisfactory, for he left her nothing to do but sit back and enjoy herself. And he made her laugh, sharing with him his laughter. It was half-past ten when they arose and went out upon the street. There she kept right on forgetting. It was not until she stood in her room, half-undressed, that she remembered she had not told Pendleton that to-night was positively to bring to an end this impossible friendship.