"Perhaps it would not be attractive
to either her or myself when we came up to it," he decided.
"I stepped in," she began again. "I have been thinking. Some things you
said--in the letter and when you talked of your friend Janet who died--
some things of men and women and work. You may not remember them. I--I got
interested. I--are you a socialist?"
"I believe not," Sam answered, wondering what had given her that thought.
"Are you?"
She laughed and shook her head.
"Just what are you?" she went on. "What do you believe? I am curious to
know. I thought your note--you will pardon me--I thought it a kind of
pretence."
Sam winced. A shadow of doubt of the sincerity of his business philosophy
crossed his mind accompanied by the swaggering figure of Windy McPherson.
He came around the desk and leaning against it looked at her. His
secretary had gone out of the room and they were alone together. Sam
laughed.
"There was a man in the town where I was raised used to say that I was a
little mole working underground, intent upon worms," he said, and then,
waving his arms toward the papers on the desk, added, "I am a business
man. Isn't that enough? If you could go with me through some of these cost
sheets you would agree they are needed.
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