But
I must not say that sort of thing. Indeed, I know nothing,
Miss Lenox--I assure you----"
"And please tell him," interrupted Susan, "that I'd have
written him myself, only I don't want to bother him."
"Oh, no--no, indeed. Not that, Miss Lenox. I'm so sorry.
But I'm only the secretary. I can't say anything."
It was some time before Susan could get rid of him, though he
was eager to be gone. He hung in the doorway, ejaculating
disconnectedly, dropping and picking up his hat, perspiring
profusely, shaking hands again and again, and so exciting her
pity for his misery of the good-hearted weak that she was for
the moment forgetful of her own plight. Long before he went,
he had greatly increased her already strong belief in Brent's
generosity of character--for, thought she, he'd have got
another secretary if he hadn't been too kind to turn adrift so
helpless and foolish a creature. Well--he should have no
trouble in getting rid of her.
She was seeing little of Spenser and they were saying almost
nothing to each other. When he came at night, always very
late, she was in bed and pretended sleep. When he awoke, she
got breakfast in silence; they read the newspapers as they
ate. And he could not spare the time to come to dinner. As
the decisive moment drew near, his fears dried up his
confident volubility. He changed his mind and insisted on her
coming to the theater for the final rehearsals.
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