Sincerely, Willis Wayde by John P. Marquand Page B

call it long-staple Egyptian. They ought to know better than to send us a shipment like that, and I wish you’d tell them so from me. And the skylight’s still out at Unit Three.”
    â€œYou’re right it is,” Mr. Hewett said, “but the boys are setting the new glass now.”
    Willis followed Mr. Harcourt further down the hall, and Mr. Harcourt stopped at another open door.
    â€œGo in, Willis,” he said. “This is where I stay when I’m here.”
    Willis was surprised by the simplicity of Mr. Harcourt’s office. It was larger but its appointments were much simpler than those in the room of any other executive, but there was a reason behind everything with which Mr. Harcourt was connected. The battered desk, the old-fashioned carpet, the wooden chairs around a bare pine table, the grate, the tongs and shovel, the coal bucket by the fireplace had all come from the old office of William Harcourt. Then they had been used, with only a few additions, by Mr. George Harcourt, whose portrait, with that of Mr. William—both replicas of the ones in the Harcourt dining room—stared somberly from the walls. The furnishings indicated dramatically that Mr. Harcourt, as the head of the Harcourt Mill, could dispense with elaborate settings.
    â€œThese things here,” Mr. Harcourt said to Willis, just as though Willis were a distinguished visitor, “were bought by my grandfather when he started the mill in 1850. A lot of business has been done across this desk. Sit down there, won’t you, Willis?”
    He pointed to a chair beside the desk and sat down himself on the swivel chair behind it, first glancing out of the window behind him and then out of the window to his left. Then he examined some papers in front of him without bothering to put on his spectacles.
    â€œExcuse me just a minute, Willis,” he said, and he read the office memoranda with a concentration that made Willis think that an invisible curtain had fallen between them.
    â€œMiss Jackman,” he called, “will you come in, please?”
    Miss Jackman had been his secretary for twenty years, and she had been in the accounting department for some years previously. She was gray-haired and straight-backed, with steel-rimmed glasses that made her look like a schoolmarm. She opened the door of her own office at the end of the room, strolled across the threadbare carpet and halted in an almost military way in front of Mr. Harcourt’s desk. Mr. Harcourt smiled at her, but she did not return his smile.
    â€œYou’ve got me down for a pretty tight schedule this afternoon, Miss Jackman,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I’m getting old and I like time to turn around in.”
    â€œYes,” Miss Jackman said, “but you haven’t got the time today. You should have been in earlier this morning.”
    â€œPerhaps I should have,” Mr. Harcourt said.
    â€œThe bank’s called you from Boston,” Miss Jackman said. “Will you be at the meeting on Tuesday?”
    â€œYes,” Mr. Harcourt answered, “and I’ll have lunch at the club.”
    â€œMr. Bryson wants to see you.”
    â€œWhat does he want now?” Mr. Harcourt asked.
    â€œIt’s about the sales department.”
    â€œOh dear me,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Tell him to see me at the house this evening.”
    â€œThey have guests for dinner tonight.”
    â€œWell,” Mr. Harcourt said, “tell him before dinner. Is there anything else?”
    â€œYes,” Miss Jackman said, and Willis thought that she hesitated because he was there.
    â€œWell, what is it?” Mr. Harcourt said.
    â€œMrs. James telephoned. She’s very anxious to have you call her back.”
    â€œShe called me here at the office? She really shouldn’t do that,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Well, get her for me in ten minutes. Thank you, Miss Jackman.”
    Miss Jackman strode back into her