Smith got up and went out. Lane sat there with a vague sense of
absurdity in the situation. The click of a typewriter sounded from
behind him. He wanted to hurry out. He wanted to think of other
things, and twice he drove away memory of the girl he had just left at
Doctor Bronson's office. Presently Smith returned, slipping along in
his shiny black suit, flat-footed and slightly bowed, with his set
dull expression.

"Lane, Mr. Manton asks you to please excuse him. He's extremely busy,"
said Smith. "I told him that you wanted your old job back. And he
instructed me to tell you he had been put to the trouble of breaking
in a girl to take your place. She now does the work you used to
have--very satisfactorily, Mr. Manton thinks, and at less pay. So, of
course, a change is impossible."

"I see," returned Lane, slowly, as he rose to go. "I had an idea that
might be the case. I'm finding things--a little different."

"No doubt, Lane. You fellows who went away left us to make the best of
it."

"Yes, Smith, we fellows 'went away,'" replied Lane, with satire, "and
I'm finding out the fact wasn't greatly appreciated. Good day."

On the way out the little office girl opened the door for him and
ogled him again, and stood a moment on the threshold. Ponderingly,
Lane made his way down to the street. A rush of cool spring air seemed
to refresh him, and with it came a realization that he never would
have been able to stay cooped up in Manton's place. Even if his