She would show him what
happened to pushers who pestered business women during
office hours.
"Bring him in in twenty minutes," she said, grimly. Her
office boy (and slave) always took his cue from her. She
hoped he wouldn't be too rude to Heyl, and turned back to
her work again. Thirty-nine seconds later Clarence Heyl
walked in.
"Hello, Fan!" he said, and had her limp hand in a grip that
made her wince.
"But I told----"
"Yes, I know. But he's a crushed and broken office boy by
now. I had to be real harsh with him."
Fanny stood up, really angry now. She looked up at Clarence
Heyl, and her eyes were flashing. Clarence Heyl looked down
at her, and his eyes were the keenest, kindest, most gently
humorous eyes she had ever encountered. You know that
picture of Lincoln that shows us his eyes with much that
expression in them? That's as near as I can come to
conveying to you the whimsical pathos in this man. They
were the eyes of a lonely little boy grown up. And they had
seen much in the process.
Fanny felt her little blaze of anger flicker and die.
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