On the fourth day, being still unable to think of anything but
her project for showing her prowess by conquering this man with
no time for women, she donned a severely plain walking costume
and went to his office.
At the threshold of the ``Sanctum'' she stopped short. Selma,
pencil poised over her block of copy paper and every indication
of impatience, albeit polite impatience, in her fascinating
Cossack face, was talking to--or, rather, listening to--David
Hull. Like not a few young men--and young women--brought up in
circumstances that surround them with people deferential for the
sake of what there is, or may possibly be, in it--Davy Hull had
the habit of assuming that all the world was as fond of listening
to him as he was of listening to himself. So it did not often
occur to him to observe his audience for signs of a willingness
to end the conversation.
Selma, turning a little further in her nervousness, saw Jane and
sprang up with a radiant smile of welcome.
``I'm SO glad!'' she cried, rushing toward her and kissing her.
``I've thought about you often, and wished I could find time to
come to see you.''
Jane was suddenly as delighted as Selma. For Selma's burst of
friendliness, so genuine, so unaffected, in this life of
blackness and cold always had the effect of sun suddenly making
summer out of a chill autumnal day. Nor, curiously enough, was
her delight lessened by Davy Hull's blundering betrayal of
himself.
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