Sincerely, Willis Wayde by John P. Marquand Page A

prosperity of the whole establishment.
    The interior also looked more like a house than an office. There was a fine hallway, and a broad staircase rising to the sales and plan departments. There was a large waiting room with a comfortable open fireplace—almost like a room in a men’s club, as Mrs. Blood said—and there were a directors’ room and rooms for all the chief executives. Instead of contracting with an office-supply house for the necessary desks, chairs, and tables, Mr. Harcourt had called in an interior decorator, who had furnished the main office with antique reproductions and often with genuine pieces of English Chippendale. The walls of the main hallway were hung with a collection of sailing-ship pictures, and the table in the directors’ room was a Duncan Phyfe. As Mr. Harcourt said, the office building was the one place in which he had been allowed ever to express his own taste. If none of it had anything to do with commercial belting, it gave an impression of quality, which was the basis of the Harcourt product.
    Mr. Harcourt’s mind was on this subject now, as he walked into the main hall with Willis and nodded to Miss Minton, the receptionist, who sat behind a flat Georgian desk.
    â€œHow does this strike you, Willis?” he asked. “I’ve never seen why business should not be conducted in agreeable surroundings or why people should suffer when they talk over costs and figures. Is Mr. Hewett in, Miss Minton?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Harcourt. He was asking for you,” Miss Minton said. “Shall I tell him you’re in?”
    â€œOh, no,” Mr. Harcourt said, “I’ll stop in and see him.”
    Mr. Hewett’s door was open. It was one of the rules at the Harcourt Mill that every one of the key officers should keep his door open except when he was in a private conference, and also that every officer should be ready to see any employee whatsoever, without appointment; and it was not a bad rule either for a small organization. Except for his neat brown suit and for his age—he was in his sixties then—Mr. Hewett reminded Willis of Mr. Beane at the Harcourt place. He had the same broad heavy shoulders and the same broad face, but unlike Mr. Beane he wore horn-rimmed spectacles. He was seated at his desk reading a report when Mr. Harcourt entered.
    â€œHello, H.H.,” Mr. Harcourt said.
    â€œHello, H.H.,” Mr. Hewett answered.
    It was one of the old Harcourt jokes, that they both had the same first name and the same initials.
    â€œThis is Willis Wayde,” Mr. Harcourt said.
    â€œOh, he’s Alf’s son, is he?” Mr. Hewett said. “Mary’s been planning to pay a call on Mrs. Wayde, but she said it was only fair to let her get settled first. Well, how do things seem to you, Willis?”
    Willis cleared his throat, and his voice broke slightly.
    â€œIt’s pretty big to get an idea of it all at once,” he said.
    â€œSome people around here never do,” Mr. Hewett said. “Will you draw up a chair and sit down, H.H.?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Is there anything I ought to know about, Henry?”
    â€œNothing this morning,” Mr. Hewett said. “Decker is coming in this afternoon. Do you want me to sit in with you?”
    â€œIt might be just as well,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Is Bryson in?”
    â€œHe’s upstairs going over sales,” Mr. Hewett said. “Bryson’s got a new chart.”
    â€œNo doubt I’ll hear about it later,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Henry, Number Five is working all right now, isn’t it? At least it sounded right.”
    â€œOld Man Avery was sick that you noticed it yesterday,” Mr. Hewett said. “He’s breaking in two new cutters, you know. Anything else on your mind, H.H.?”
    Mr. Harcourt pinched his lower lip gently.
    â€œI saw them testing out that yarn, and I still wouldn’t