"It's all right!" Thorny patted it affectionately. "Isn't it
gorgeous, girls? Don't you care, Susan, you're worth ten of the
Kirks!"

"Here they come now!" Miss Murray whispered, at the head of the
stairs. "Beat it, Susan, don't let 'em see you!"

Susan duly fled to the wash-room, where, concealed a moment later by
a towel, and the hanging veil of her hair, she could meet the Kirks'
glances innocently enough. Later, fresh and tidy, she took her place
at her desk, rather refreshed by her outburst, and curiously
peaceful in spirit. The joys of martyrdom were Susan's, she was
particularly busy and cheerful. Fate had dealt her cruel blows
before this one, she inherited from some persecuted Irish ancestor a
grim pleasure in accepting them.

Afternoons, from one o'clock until half-past five, seemed endless in
Front Office. Mornings, beside being exactly one hour shorter by the
clock, could be still more abbreviated by the few moments gained by
the disposal of hats and wraps, the dusting of desks, sharpening of
pencils, and filling of ink-wells. The girls used a great many
blocks of yellow paper called scratch-pads, and scratch-pads must be
gotten down almost daily from the closet, dusted and distributed,
there were paper cuffs to adjust, and there was sometimes a ten or
fifteen-minute delay before the bills for the day began to come up.
But the afternoons knew no such delays, the girls were tired, the
air in the office stale. Every girl, consciously or not, sighed as
she took her seat at one o'clock.