“Lady from the Stenographer’s Agency to see about theposition，” said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around， with his hands full ofpapers and ticker tape.
“What position？” he asked， with a frown.
“Position of stenographer，” said Pitcher. “You told meyesterday to call them up and have one sent over thismorning.”
“You are losing your mind， Pitcher，” said Maxwell. “Whyshould I have given you any such instructions？ Miss Lesliehas given perfect satisfaction during the year she has beenhere. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it.
There’s no place open here， madam. Countermand thatorder with the agency， Pitcher， and don’t bring any moreof ’em in here.”
The silver heart left the office， swinging and bangingitself independently against the office furniture as itindignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remarkto the bookkeeper that the “old man” seemed to get moreabsent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster.
On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks inwhich Maxwell’s customers were heavy investors. Ordersto buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flightof swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled，and the man was working like some high-geared， delicate，strong machine—strung to full tension， going at full speed，accurate， never hesitating， with the proper word anddecision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocksand bonds， loans and mortgages， margins and securities—here was a world of finance， and there was no room in itfor the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slightlull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegramsand memoranda， with a fountain pen over his right ear andhis hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead.
His window was open， for the beloved janitress Spring hadturned on a little warmth through the waking registers ofthe earth.
And through the window came a wandering—perhaps alost—odour—a delicate， sweet odour of lilac that fixed thebroker for a moment immovable. For this odour belongedto Miss Leslie； it was her own， and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly， almost tangibly beforehim. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck.
And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.
“By George， I’ll do it now，” said Maxwell， half aloud. “I’llask her now. I wonder I didn’t do it long ago.”
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of ashort trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of thestenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink creptover her cheek， and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwellleaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched flutteringpapers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
“Miss Leslie，” he began hurriedly， “I have but a momentto spare. I want to say something in that moment. Willyou be my wife？ I haven’t had time to make love to youin the ordinary way， but I really do love you. Talk quick，please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out ofUnion Pacific.”
“Oh， what are you talking about？” exclaimed the younglady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him， round-eyed.
“Don’t you understand？” said Maxwell， restively. “I wantyou to marry me. I love you， Miss Leslie. I wanted to tellyou， and I snatched a minute when things had slackenedup a bit. They’re calling me for the ’phone now. Tell ’em towait a minute， Pitcher. Won’t you， Miss Leslie？”
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemedovercome with amazement； then tears flowed from herwondering eyes； and then she smiled sunnily throughthem， and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’sneck.
“I know now，” she said， softly. “It’s this old business thathas driven everything else out of your head for the time. Iwas frightened at first. Don’t you remember， Harvey？ Wewere married last evening at 8 o’clock in the Little ChurchAround the Corner.”