She was still typing swiftly at five-thirty, the closing hour. The article was long; she had at least two hours of work ahead. Miss Moynihan came stockily to say good-night. The other stenographers fluttered out to the elevators. Their corner became oppressively quiet. The office-manager gently puttered about, bade her good-night, drifted away. S. Herbert Ross boomed out of his office, explaining the theory of advertising to a gasoleny man in a pin-checked suit as they waddled to the elevator. The telephone-girl hurried back to connect up a last call, frowned while she waited, yanked out the plug, and scuttled away--a creamy, roe-eyed girl, pretty and unhappy at her harassing job of connecting nervous talkers all day. Four men, editors and advertising-men, shouldered out, bawling over a rather feeble joke about Bill's desire for a drink and their willingness to help him slay the booze-evil. Una was conscious that they had gone, that walls of silence were closing about her clacking typewriter. And that Walter Babson had not gone; that he was sharing with her this whispering forsaken office. Presently he came rambling out of the editorial-room. He had taken off his grotesque, great horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes were mutinous in his dark melancholy face; he drew a hand over them and shook his head. Una was aware of all this in one glance. "Poor, tired boy!" she thought. He sat on the top of the nearest desk, hugged his knee, rocked back and forth, and said, "Much left, Miss Golden?" "I think I'll be through in about two hours." "Oh, Lord! I can't let you stay that late." "It doesn't matter. Really! I'll be glad. I haven't had to stay late much." For quite the first time he stared straight at her, saw her as a human being. She was desperately hoping that her hair was smooth and that there wasn't any blue from the typewriter ribbon daubed on her cheeks!... He ceased his rocking; appraised her. A part of her brain was wondering what he would do; a part longing to smile temptingly at him; a part coldly commanding, "You will not be a little fool--he isn't interested in you, and you won't try to make him be, either!" "Why, you look as fagged as I feel," he said. "I suppose I'm as bad as the rest. I kick like a steer when the Old Man shoves some extra work on me, and then I pass the buck and make _you_ stay late. Say! Tell you what we'll do." Very sweet to her was his "we," and his intimacy of tone. "I'll start copying, too. I'm quite considerable at machine-pounding myself, and we can get the thing done and mailed by six-thirty or so, and then I'll buy you a handsome dinner at Childs's. Gosh! I'll even blow you to a piece of pie; and I'll shoot you up home by quarter to eight. Great stuff! Gimme a copy of the drool. Meanwhile you'll have a whole hour for worried maiden thoughts over going out to eat with the bad, crazy Wally Babson!"