and
Mr. Truax's in obtaining the same; women with unsalable houses to sell
or improbable lots to buy, dissatisfied clients, or mere cranks--old,
shattered, unhappy women, to whom Una could give sympathy, but no
time.... She was expert at standing filially listening to them at the
elevator, while all the time her thumb steadily pressed the elevator
signal.

Una had been trained, perhaps as much by enduring Mr. Schwirtz as by
pleasing Mr. S. Herbert Ross, to be firm, to say no, to keep Mr. Truax's
sacred rites undisturbed. She did not conventionally murmur, "Mr. Truax
is in a conference just now, and if you will tell me the nature of your
business--" Instead, she had surprising, delightful, convincing things
for Mr. Truax to be doing, just at that particular _moment_--

From Mr. Truax himself she learned new ways of delicately getting rid of
people. He did not merely rise to indicate that an interview was over,
but also arranged a system of counterfeit telephone-calls, with Una
calling up from the outside office, and Mr. Truax answering, "Yes, I'll
be through now in just a moment," as a hint for the visitor. He even
practised such play-acting as putting on his hat and coat and rushing
out to greet an important but unwelcome caller with, "Oh, I'm so sorry
I'm just going out--late f' important engagement--given m' secretary
full instructions, and I know she'll take care of you jus' as well as I
could personally," and returning to his private office by a rear door.

Mr. Truax, like Mr. S. Herbert Ross, gave Una maxims. But his had very
little to do with stars and argosies, and the road to success, and
vivisection, and the abstract virtues. They concerned getting to the
office on time, and never letting a customer bother him if an office
salesman could take care of the matter.

So round Una flowed all the energy of life; and she of the listening and
desolate hotel room and the overshadowing storm-clouds was happy again.

She began to make friendships. "Chas.," the office-manager, stopped
often at her desk to ridicule--and Mr. Fein to praise--the plans she
liked to make for garden-suburbs which should be filled with poets,
thatched roofs, excellent plumbing, artistic conversation, fireplaces,
incinerators, books, and convenient trains.

"Some day," said Mr. Fein to her, "we'll do that sort of thing, just as
the Sage Foundation is doing it at Forest Hills." And he smiled
encouragingly.

"Some day," said Mr. Truax, "when