Part 18 (1/2)
”I beg your pardon!” Fenger came swiftly around the desk, and over to her. ”I was thinking very hard. Miss Brandeis, will you dine with me somewhere tonight? Then to-morrow night? But I want to talk to you.”
”Here I am. Talk.”
”But I want to talk to--you.”
It was then that f.a.n.n.y Brandeis saved an ugly situation. For she laughed, a big, wholesome, outdoors sort of laugh. She was honestly amused.
”My dear Mr. Fenger, you've been reading the murky magazines. Very bad for you.”
Fenger was unsmiling: ”Why won't you dine with me?”
”Because it would be unconventional and foolish. I respect the conventions. They're so sensible. And because it would be unfair to you, and to Mrs. Fenger, and to me.”
”Rot! It's you who have the murky magazine viewpoint, as you call it, when you imply--”
”Now, look here, Mr. Fenger,” f.a.n.n.y interrupted, quietly. ”Let's be square with each other, even if we're not being square with ourselves.
You're the real power in this plant, because you've the brains. You can make any person in this organization, or break them. That sounds melodramatic, but it's true. I've got a definite life plan, and it's as complete and detailed as an engineering blue print. I don't intend to let you spoil it. I've made a real start here. If you want to, I've no doubt you can end it. But before you do, I want to warn you that I'll make a pretty stiff fight for it. I'm no silent sufferer. I'll say things. And people usually believe me when I talk.”
Still the silent, concentrated gaze. With a little impatient exclamation f.a.n.n.y walked toward the door. Fenger, startlingly light and agile for his great height, followed.
”I'm sorry, Miss Brandeis, terribly sorry. You see, you interest me very much. Very much.”
”Thanks,” dryly.
”Don't go just yet. Please. I'm not a villain. Really. That is, not a deliberate villain. But when I find something very fine, very intricate, very fascinating and complex--like those etchings, for example--I am intrigued. I want it near me. I want to study it.”
f.a.n.n.y said nothing. But she thought, ”This is a dangerously clever man.
Too clever for you. You know so little about them.” Fenger waited. Most women would have found refuge in words. The wrong words. It is only the strong who can be silent when in doubt.
”Perhaps you will dine with Mrs. Fenger and me at our home some evening?
Mrs. Fenger will speak to you about it.”
”I'm afraid I'm usually too tired for further effort at the end of the day. I'm sorry----”
”Some Sunday night perhaps, then. Tea.”
”Thank you.” And so out, past the spare secretary, the anxious-browed stenographer, the academic office boy, to the hallway, the elevator, and finally the refuge of her own orderly desk. Slosson was at lunch in one of the huge restaurants provided for employees in the building across the street. She sat there, very still, for some minutes; for more minutes than she knew. Her hands were clasped tightly on the desk, and her eyes stared ahead in a puzzled, resentful, bewildered way. Something inside her was saying over and over again:
”You lied to him on that very first day. That placed you. That stamped you. Now he thinks you're rotten all the way through. You lied on the very first day.”
Ella Monahan poked her head in at the door. The Gloves were on that floor, at the far end. The two women rarely saw each other, except at lunch time.
”Missed you at lunch,” said Ella Monahan. She was a pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman of forty-one or two, prematurely gray and therefore excessively young in her manner, as women often are who have grown gray before their time.
f.a.n.n.y stood up, hurriedly. ”I was just about to go.”
”Try the grape pie, dear. It's delicious.” And strolled off down the aisle that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead.
f.a.n.n.y stood for a moment looking after her, as though meaning to call her back. But she must have changed her mind, because she said, ”Oh, nonsense!” aloud. And went across to lunch. And ordered grape pie. And enjoyed it.