"I wanted to be sure of catching
you," he said, "before you did anything. You haven't yet, have you? Not
written to Shuman throwing up your job, or anything like that?"
Even over the telephone his manner was eloquent with relief when she
told him she had not. "I want to talk with you," he said. "It's got to
be somewhere where we won't be interrupted." He added, "I shan't say
again what I said last night. You'll find me perfectly reasonable."
Somehow his voice carried entire conviction. The man she visualized at
the other telephone was neither the distracted pleader she had left last
night, nor the martinet she had been working for during the last month
here in New York, but the John Galbraith she had known in Chicago.
"All right," she said, "I don't know any better place than here in my
apartment, if that's convenient for you."
"Yes," he said, "that's all right. When may I come? The sooner the
better of course."
"Can you give me an hour?" she asked, and he said he could.
It occurred to her, as the moment of his arrival drew near, that she
might better have thought twice before appointing their meeting here in
her apartment.
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