Bradford bowed and departed, a look of eagerness in his eye, a new elasticity in his walk. Beatrice, without paying Mr. Steele the compliment of watching while he received his hat and her ultimatum, went to her office. Here, in an atmosphere of austere dignity created by massive furniture, her high-heeled slippers falling soundlessly upon the thick carpet, she walked restlessly back and forth, again seeking to gather her thoughts. She was to talk with Hurley of the Little Giant mine, with Brown, her cattle foreman, with Emmet Trent, her horse foreman, all due within a few moments. Further, she was to be in readiness for the coming of a dozen guests sometime during the afternoon. Bradford had assured her that everything was in readiness, or would be before her friends arrived, but …
Through the still air came William Steele's answer to her emissary, a joyous roar of laughter. And soon thereafter appeared Bradford himself, the look of eagerness in his eye having given place to one of uncertainty.
"Well?" asked Miss Corliss sharply.
"I gave him his hat, Miss Corliss," said Bradford. "And he … he said …"
"Well?" she repeated quickly. "Go on."
"He said, 'Thanks, old man.'"
Bradford, a man not easily upset, blurted the words out as though to get his mouth clean of them with all possible dispatch.
Beatrice Corliss was guilty of the suspicion of a sniff.
"You should have resented the familiarity, Bradford," she said briefly. "You gave him my message?"
