ROSES
When Miss Winthrop changed her mind and consented not to seek a new
luncheon place, she was taking a chance, and she knew it. If ever
Blake heard of the new arrangement,--and he was sure to hear of it if
any one ever saw her there with Don,--she was fully aware how he would
interpret it to the whole office.
She was taking a chance, and she knew it--knew it with a curious sense
of elation. She was taking a chance for him. This hour at noon was the
only opportunity she had of talking to Don. If she let that pass, then
she could do nothing more for him. She must stand back and watch him
go his own way, as others had gone their way.
For one thing was certain: she could allow no further conversations in
the office. She had been forced to stop those, and had warned him that
he must not speak to her again there except on business, and that he
must not sit at Powers's desk and watch her at work. When he had
challenged her for a reason, she had blushed; then she had replied
simply:--
"It isn't business."
So, when on Saturday morning Don came in heavy-eyed for lack of sleep
after the Moore dance, she merely looked up and nodded and went on
with her work. But she studied him a dozen times when he did not know
she was studying him, and frowned every time he suppressed, with
difficulty, a yawn. He appeared tired--dead tired.
For the first time in months she found herself looking forward to
the noon hour. She glanced at her watch at eleven-thirty, at
eleven-forty-five, and again at five minutes before twelve.
To-day she reserved a seat for him in the little lunch-room. But at
fifteen minutes past twelve, when Don usually strode in the door, he
had not come. At twenty minutes past he had not come. If he did not
come in another five minutes she resolved to make no further effort to
keep his place--either to-day or at any future time. At first she was
irritated; then she was worried. It was possible he was lunching with
Blake. If he began that--well, she would be freed of all further
responsibility, for one thing. But at this point Don entered. He made
no apologies for having kept her waiting, but deposited in the empty
chair, as he went off for his sandwich and coffee, a long, narrow box
done up in white paper. She gave him time to eat a portion of his
lunch before she asked:--
"Out late again last night?"
"Went to a dance," he nodded.
She was relieved to hear that. It was a better excuse than some, but
still it was not a justifiable excuse for a man who needed all his
energies.
"You didn't get enough sleep, then."
"I should say not," Don admitted cheerfully. "In bed at four and up at
seven."
"You look it."
"And I feel it."
"You can't keep that up long."
"Sunday's coming, and I'm going to sleep all day," he declared.
"But what's the use of getting into that condition?" she inquired.
He thought a moment.
"Well, I don't suppose a man can cut off everything just because he's
in business."
"That's part of the business--at the beginning," she returned.
"To work all the time?"
"To work all the time," she nodded. "I wish I had your chance."
"My chance to work?" he laughed.
"Your chance to get ahead," she answered. "It's all so easy--for a
man!"
"Easy?"
"You don't have to do anything but keep straight and keep at work. You
ought to have taken those circulars home with you last night and
learned them by heart."
"I've read 'em. But, hang it all, they don't mean anything."
"Then find out what they mean. Keep at it until you do find out. The
firm isn't going to pay you for what you _don't_ know."
"But last night--well, a man has to get around a little bit."
"Around where?" she questioned him.
"Among his friends. Doesn't he?"
She hesitated.
"It seems to me you'll have to choose between dances and business."
"Eh?"
She nodded.
"Between dances and business. I tell you, this next six months is
going to count a lot on how you make good with Farnsworth."
"Well, he isn't the only one," he said.
"He's the only one in this office--I know what I'm talking about."
"But outside the office--"
She put down her fork.
"I don't know why I'm mixing up in your business," she declared
earnestly. "Except that I've been here three years now, and have seen
men come and go. Every time they've gone it has been clear as daylight
why they went. Farnsworth is square. He hasn't much heart in him, but
he's square. And he has eyes in the back of his head."
She raised her own eyes and looked swiftly about the room as if she
half-expected to discover him here.
"What's the matter?" he inquired.
She did not answer his question, but as she ran on again she lowered
her voice:--
"You've been in his office to-day?"
"He gave me some more circulars," Don admitted.
"Then you'd better believe he knew you didn't get to bed last night
until 4 a.m. And you'd better believe he has tucked that away in his
mind somewhere."
Don appeared worried.
"He didn't say anything."
"No, he didn't say anything. He doesn't say anything until he has a
whole collection of those little things. Even then he doesn't say
much; but what he does say--counts."
"You don't think he's getting ready to fire me?" he asked anxiously.
"He's always getting ready," she answered. "He's always getting ready
to fire or advance you. That's the point," she went on more earnestly.
"What I don't understand is why the men who come in here aren't
getting ready too. I don't see why they don't play the game. I might
stay with the firm twenty years and I'd still be pounding a
typewriter. But you--"
She raised her eyes to his. She saw that Don's had grown less dull,
and her own warmed with this initial success.
"You used to play football, didn't you?" she asked.
"A little."
"Then you ought to know something about doing things hard; and you
ought to know something about keeping in training."
"But look here, it seems to me you take this mighty seriously."
"Farnsworth does," she corrected. "That's why he's getting ten
thousand a year."
The figures recalled a vivid episode.
"Ten thousand a year," he repeated after her. "Is that what he
draws?"
"That's what they say. Anyway, he's worth it."
"And you think I--I might make a job like that?"
"I'll bet I'd try for it if I were in your boots," she answered
earnestly.
"I'll bet you'd land it if you were in my boots." He raised his
coffee-cup. "Here's to the ten thousand a year," he drank.
Miss Winthrop rose. She had talked more than she intended, and was
somewhat irritated at herself. If, for a second, she thought she had
accomplished something, she did not think so now, as he too rose and
smiled at her. He handed her the pasteboard box.
"Your two dollars is in there," he explained.
She looked perplexed.
"Shall I wait five minutes?"
"Yes," she answered, as he thrust the box into her hands.
That box worried her all the afternoon. Not having a chance to open
it, she hid it beneath her desk, where it distracted her thoughts
until evening. Of course she could not open it on the Elevated, so it
lay in her lap, still further to distract her thoughts on the way
home. It seemed certain that a two-dollar bill could not occupy all
that space.
She did not wait even to remove her hat before opening it in her room.
She found a little envelope containing her two-dollar bill nestling in
five dollars' worth of roses.
It was about as foolish a thing as she had ever known a man to do.
She placed the flowers on the table when she had her supper. All night
long they filled the room with their fragrance.