Angela's Business

Being an author actually at work, and not an author being photographed at work by a lady admirer, he did not gaze large-eyed at a poppy in a crystal vase, one hand lightly touching his forehead, the other tossing off page after page in high godlike frenzy. On the contrary, the young man at the table yawned, lolled, sighed, scratched his ear, read snatches of Virginia Carter's «Letters to My Girl Friends» in the morning's «Post,» read snatches of any printed matter that happened to be about, and even groaned. When he gazed, it was at no flower, but more probably at his clock, a stout alarm-clock well known to the trade as «Big Bill»; and the clock gazed back, since there was a matter between them this evening, and seemed to say, «Well, are you going to the Redmantle Club, or are you not?» But that was precisely the point on which the young man at the table had not yet made up his mind.