He
dictated fragments of English words, and Bean reconstructed them with
the cunning of a Cuvier. He felt astute, robust, and disrespectful. Just
one wrong word from Breede and all would be over between them. The poor
old wreck didn't dream that he had nursed a flapper in his bosom, a
flapper that would just perfectly have what she wanted--and no good
fussing.
In the outer office, however, he was aware that his expansion was subtly
making itself felt. Bulger had insensibly altered and was treating him
after the manner of a fellow club man. Old Metzeger said "Good morning!"
to him affectionately--for Metzeger--and once he detected Tully staring
at him through the enlarging glasses as if in an effort to read his very
soul. But he knew his soul was not to be read by such as Tully. Tully,
back there on the Nile, would have been a dancer--at the most, a fancy
skater--if, indeed, he had risen to the human order, and were not still
a slinking gazelle. Good name that, for Tully. He would remember
it--gazelle!
At three o'clock he glanced aside from his typewriter to see a director
enter Breede's room. He did not lift his look above the hem of the man's
coat, but he knew him for the quiet one. And yet, when the door closed
upon him, he seemed to become as noisy as any of them. Bean heard his
voice rising.
Another director came, the big one who gripped a cigarette with an
obviously cigar mouth.
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