discomfited by his and Dunning’s observation of the scene. Yet enough authority rested in that glance to prompt Dunning to make haste in removing his cigarette from his lips. “Forgive me,” murmured the baronet’s son to the type-writer girl.
Her bottom lip escaped, a symptom of her unease. “I wanted his help in working out payments. So there would be a—”
Again, she glanced into the office, a pensive aspect about her eyes. Which were brown. He’d noted that before. But they were quite brown, weren’t they? Brown looked well with blue—gorgeous, really, with the sort of blue Betsey Dobson wore just now, the same rich blue found in the Swan Park’s carpets and wallpapers and glass dome.
“A solution in place before we came to you,” she finished.
Solution. Required only in the presence of a problem.
“I see,” Tobias said. His tone was mild and confident, assuring all involved he truly did see, even if he hadn’t yet made up his mind on anything. He pulled out his pocket watch and interrupted Hamble’s protests with concern for the bookkeeper’s loss of his half-day, and while his sacrifice was appreciated, what a shame, for surely Miss Dobson and he himself could sort it through in a matter of minutes, and it so happened he had a few right now. “No more, no more!” he insisted when Hamble tried to go on, and he sounded at once like Hamble’s superior and his guest, unable to accept such excessive hospitality.
John would have smiled to witness such grace, but Tobias’sexpression turned grave as Hamble departed for the day and he and Miss Dobson started for the company offices, located farther down the corridor. John rubbed his thumb along the side of his forefinger. He smelled a fresh waft of tobacco as Dunning returned to his cigarette.
“Who,” Dunning said on a subsequent exhalation, “is your she-general there, Jones?”
Miss Dobson. He began rifling through the papers on his desk, the ones that had gone flying when Tobias had opened the door. He went through them twice before he noticed Dunning’s arm extended, the papers he’d collected from the floor still in hand. There it was. He saw it before he snatched it from Dunning, a letter from some clerk at Baumston & Smythe, making the most outlandish claims against one Miss “Elizabeth” Dobson. Assault? John had said, skeptical, to the company secretary who’d brought the letter to his attention, and the secretary had replied, I can hardly credit it, either, sir .
Well, John could credit it now. By God, he could give it all degrees of credit, having seen that creature who’d come ripping down the corridor after Hamble.
He headed for the company offices, the letter tucked in his coat.
He hoped to make a quiet entrance, but he had forgotten Miss Dobson’s desk, squeezed into the office last week, exactly where the door would strike it if one opened it too far.
Which John did. With the rest of the staff gone for the day, the noise seemed tremendous. Tobias and Miss Dobson, standing at Hamble’s desk, looked up from the ledger they were studying.
She-general. The aptness of Dunning’s word registered suddenly. This was Betsey Dobson in her uniform, the one Tobias had told her to get.
It fit. It fit so well he’d scarcely noticed it earlier. It was a feminine nod to military wear, with an open bodice jacket that revealed a sort of waistcoat whose banded collar stood stiff and high. Yet, somehow, a column of milky flesh still showed above it. A procession of brass buttons traveled down from there and braved theswell of her breasts, and where other women’s skirts surrendered to surges of flounces and gathers, only stripes of dark ribbon and razor-sharp pleats were permitted on hers. The entire getup was frill-less and direct, nothing but proper, and it beckoned, decorously, to be rumpled up.
Tobias was saying something about Miss Dobson’s budget, how something was wrong with it, and he was saying it to John, who, despite
Her bottom lip escaped, a symptom of her unease. “I wanted his help in working out payments. So there would be a—”
Again, she glanced into the office, a pensive aspect about her eyes. Which were brown. He’d noted that before. But they were quite brown, weren’t they? Brown looked well with blue—gorgeous, really, with the sort of blue Betsey Dobson wore just now, the same rich blue found in the Swan Park’s carpets and wallpapers and glass dome.
“A solution in place before we came to you,” she finished.
Solution. Required only in the presence of a problem.
“I see,” Tobias said. His tone was mild and confident, assuring all involved he truly did see, even if he hadn’t yet made up his mind on anything. He pulled out his pocket watch and interrupted Hamble’s protests with concern for the bookkeeper’s loss of his half-day, and while his sacrifice was appreciated, what a shame, for surely Miss Dobson and he himself could sort it through in a matter of minutes, and it so happened he had a few right now. “No more, no more!” he insisted when Hamble tried to go on, and he sounded at once like Hamble’s superior and his guest, unable to accept such excessive hospitality.
John would have smiled to witness such grace, but Tobias’sexpression turned grave as Hamble departed for the day and he and Miss Dobson started for the company offices, located farther down the corridor. John rubbed his thumb along the side of his forefinger. He smelled a fresh waft of tobacco as Dunning returned to his cigarette.
“Who,” Dunning said on a subsequent exhalation, “is your she-general there, Jones?”
Miss Dobson. He began rifling through the papers on his desk, the ones that had gone flying when Tobias had opened the door. He went through them twice before he noticed Dunning’s arm extended, the papers he’d collected from the floor still in hand. There it was. He saw it before he snatched it from Dunning, a letter from some clerk at Baumston & Smythe, making the most outlandish claims against one Miss “Elizabeth” Dobson. Assault? John had said, skeptical, to the company secretary who’d brought the letter to his attention, and the secretary had replied, I can hardly credit it, either, sir .
Well, John could credit it now. By God, he could give it all degrees of credit, having seen that creature who’d come ripping down the corridor after Hamble.
He headed for the company offices, the letter tucked in his coat.
He hoped to make a quiet entrance, but he had forgotten Miss Dobson’s desk, squeezed into the office last week, exactly where the door would strike it if one opened it too far.
Which John did. With the rest of the staff gone for the day, the noise seemed tremendous. Tobias and Miss Dobson, standing at Hamble’s desk, looked up from the ledger they were studying.
She-general. The aptness of Dunning’s word registered suddenly. This was Betsey Dobson in her uniform, the one Tobias had told her to get.
It fit. It fit so well he’d scarcely noticed it earlier. It was a feminine nod to military wear, with an open bodice jacket that revealed a sort of waistcoat whose banded collar stood stiff and high. Yet, somehow, a column of milky flesh still showed above it. A procession of brass buttons traveled down from there and braved theswell of her breasts, and where other women’s skirts surrendered to surges of flounces and gathers, only stripes of dark ribbon and razor-sharp pleats were permitted on hers. The entire getup was frill-less and direct, nothing but proper, and it beckoned, decorously, to be rumpled up.
Tobias was saying something about Miss Dobson’s budget, how something was wrong with it, and he was saying it to John, who, despite
Similar Books
