Page:Christopher Morley--Tales from a rolltop desk.djvu/213

To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air and failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows seemed to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To her amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he said:

"Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?"

He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself.

"Here's some flowers for you," he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from the desk. "Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, hey? Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!"

He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he was about to chuck her under the chin.

"Ask Mr. Foster to come in," he said.

"Mr. Veal," she said, nervously, "there's just one thing—I wanted to ask you about, my salary,