Rodney saw the man off with a final hand-shake, closed
the door after him and strolled irresolutely back toward Miss Beach's
desk.
It was true, as he had told his client, that he had been spending most
of his evenings lately in his office, and it was also true that he had
an immense amount of work to do; he'd been taking it on rather
recklessly during the last two months. But they'd been pretty sterile,
those long solitary evening hours. He'd worked fitfully, grinding away
by brute strength for a while, without interest, without imagination,
and then, in a frenzy of impatience, thrusting the legal rubbish out of
the way and letting the enigma of his great failure usurp, once more,
his mind and his memories.
It had occurred to him to wonder, as he stood listening to his client's
enthusiastic description of the show at the Globe, whether it would be
possible, in any surroundings, for him, for an hour or two, to laugh and
be jolly--and forget. It might be an experiment worth trying!
"Telephone over to the University Club," he said suddenly to Miss Beach,
"and see if you can get me a seat for _The Girl Up-stairs_.
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