president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily
down the hall, stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a
spicy bit of news at his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before
the first syllable is voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy.
Keep out."

"She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly.
Then he turned the knob and entered his partner's office.

Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she
was poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up
in a maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression
that, while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye
was still on the letter.

"I knew it," said T. A. Buck morosely.

Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled.

"Sit down--now that you're in. And if you expect me to say,
`Knew what?' you're doomed to disappointment."

T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his
walking stick on which he leaned.

"Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest
scrawl from your son. One would think Jock's letters were
deathless masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour
intervals all week, and on Sunday get 'em all out and play
solitaire with them."