He did not look up at her. His gaze was on one of the bouquets.

She brought a portfolio and packets of letters all neatly docketed.

His salutation was merely, "Miss Kilgour." Colonel Dodd did not deal in
many "Good-mornings." It was also reported in Marion and the state that
his stock of urbanity was so small he was compelled to expend it very
thriftily. He certainly did not waste any of it on his office help.
He might have afforded at least one glance at the girl, for she was
extremely pretty. Still another report in Marion was to the effect that
he had selected Kate Kilgour as his secretary as the final artistic
touch to the beauty of his private office in order that he might have a
perfect ensemble. She did seem, so far as his interest in her went, to
be only a part of that ensemble which he occasionally swept carelessly
with his gaze--he reserved all his intimate admiration for the bouquets.

She laid his "Strictly Personal" letters on his fresh blotter.

She sat down and began to read the business letters aloud, not waiting
for his orders to begin. It was her daily routine, business transacted
as Colonel Dodd wished it to be transacted--crisply, promptly, directly.

He dictated replies, usually laconic, even curt, as soon as she had
finished each letter. His eyes were on the flowers as he talked.

When the letters were finished she retired with her portfolio and her
notes, the thick carpet muffling the sound of her withdrawal.

After he had slit the envelopes of his personal correspondence and had
read the contents the colonel pushed another button. The little man who
had been waiting in the corridor slipped edgewise in at the door. He was
thin and elderly and his knob of a head, set well down on his pinched
shoulders, had peering eyes on each side of that beak of a nose. When
he walked across the room his long arms were behind him under his
coat-tails and held them extended, and he bore some resemblance to a
bird. In fact, one did not require much imagination to note resemblance
to a bird in Peter Briggs--many folks likened him to a woodpecker--for
he flitted to and fro in Colonel Dodd's anteroom, among those awaiting
audience, tapping here and rapping there with the metaphorical beak of
questions, starting up the moths and grubs of business which men who
came and waited hid under the bark of their demeanor.

"Seventeen, Colonel Dodd. Five for real business; twelve of them are
sponges."

"The five?"