had thought she was through forever with the unholy three of the single girl: loneHness, being unprotected and blind dates. Now it had started again.
By the time she had ridden up in the elevator at Fabian, Caroline had forgotten the blind date and was caught up again in her working-world feeling—half thrill, half uneasiness. As she passed through the reception room she noticed a girl about her own age sitting nervously on the edge of one of the couches, wearing a hat. She must be job-
hunting, Caroline thought. The hat gave her away. Caroline and the girls she knew wore hats for only two occasions: going to a wedding or looking for a job. As soon as they were hired they put their hats back in the closet and did not wear them to the office again until (and if) they had attained the eminence of a Miss Farrow, and then they wore them all the time in the office.
I wonder if that girl out tliere will be Miss Farrow's next secretary, Caroline thought, putting a fresh comment sheet into her typewriter. Because I sure hope it won't have to be me.
She put the manuscript with Miss Farrow's and her own comments on Mr. Shalimar's unoccupied desk quickly, before she lost her courage, and returned to her desk. The girls in the bullpen were engaged in their morning coflFee ritual. She wondered whether any of them ever ate breakfast at home, especially the married ones, or whether even those never had time to feed their working husbands and themselves in the mornings. Brenda, who was currently buying her trousseau, had brought in the latest purchase, a white lace nightgown, and had put it on her desk in its open box so that all the other girls could see it.
"Look at that," Marv Agnes whispered. "She must have forty-five nightgowns by now. She buys something new every lunch hour and always puts it on her desk for everybody to ogle at. I don't know who's interested in her trousseau anyway."
My goodness, Caroline thought, tlie frantic buying, the storing up, the preparations! She won't have any money left for after she's married, but she's probably spent her whole life building up to her wedding and never thinks about all the time that goes on afterward. She had known girls like Brenda in Port Blair, the girls who thought life stopped on their wedding day in that one moment of perfect achievement, like the figures in Keats's poem about the Greek vase. She thought for an instant of the girl Eddie had married and wondered what Helen Harris was doing right now. She forced the thought out of her mind. She wasn't going to think about Eddie and Helen, it was over for her, it was none of her business. Let them do what they wanted, wake up, go to sleep, make love, she wasn't going to sit here and say to herself. What time is it in Dallas? What are they doing now? That was a good way to make yourself morbid. She had her own life now too, she was working, she was trying to work her way up to a more interesting job. She would sit here and
wait for Mr. Shalimar to come in, and look at Brenda's new nightgown looking so out of place alongside her typewriter and filing cards, and amuse herself wondering what kind of man Brenda was buying all these goodies for. Some moose face, probably.
The usual procession of late-comers was straggling in through the door. Mr. Rice, in tliat wonderful camel's-hair overcoat, with his clear-cut profile beginning to fade away a little at the edges. His eyes were slits this morning, and there was a little cut with dried blood at the corner of his mouth. He paused as usual for a long drink at the water fountain and found his way to his oflBce like a sleepwalker.
"Psst . . . look at that!" Mary Agnes prodded her, shocked.
"Our eminent religious editor," Caroline whispered, "after a struggle with the devil." She didn't know, a moment after she'd said it, why she had felt compelled to make fun of him. Actually, he fascinated her, in a way. Perhaps that was why she had said it.
"The devil?" Mary Agnes whispered back
By the time she had ridden up in the elevator at Fabian, Caroline had forgotten the blind date and was caught up again in her working-world feeling—half thrill, half uneasiness. As she passed through the reception room she noticed a girl about her own age sitting nervously on the edge of one of the couches, wearing a hat. She must be job-
hunting, Caroline thought. The hat gave her away. Caroline and the girls she knew wore hats for only two occasions: going to a wedding or looking for a job. As soon as they were hired they put their hats back in the closet and did not wear them to the office again until (and if) they had attained the eminence of a Miss Farrow, and then they wore them all the time in the office.
I wonder if that girl out tliere will be Miss Farrow's next secretary, Caroline thought, putting a fresh comment sheet into her typewriter. Because I sure hope it won't have to be me.
She put the manuscript with Miss Farrow's and her own comments on Mr. Shalimar's unoccupied desk quickly, before she lost her courage, and returned to her desk. The girls in the bullpen were engaged in their morning coflFee ritual. She wondered whether any of them ever ate breakfast at home, especially the married ones, or whether even those never had time to feed their working husbands and themselves in the mornings. Brenda, who was currently buying her trousseau, had brought in the latest purchase, a white lace nightgown, and had put it on her desk in its open box so that all the other girls could see it.
"Look at that," Marv Agnes whispered. "She must have forty-five nightgowns by now. She buys something new every lunch hour and always puts it on her desk for everybody to ogle at. I don't know who's interested in her trousseau anyway."
My goodness, Caroline thought, tlie frantic buying, the storing up, the preparations! She won't have any money left for after she's married, but she's probably spent her whole life building up to her wedding and never thinks about all the time that goes on afterward. She had known girls like Brenda in Port Blair, the girls who thought life stopped on their wedding day in that one moment of perfect achievement, like the figures in Keats's poem about the Greek vase. She thought for an instant of the girl Eddie had married and wondered what Helen Harris was doing right now. She forced the thought out of her mind. She wasn't going to think about Eddie and Helen, it was over for her, it was none of her business. Let them do what they wanted, wake up, go to sleep, make love, she wasn't going to sit here and say to herself. What time is it in Dallas? What are they doing now? That was a good way to make yourself morbid. She had her own life now too, she was working, she was trying to work her way up to a more interesting job. She would sit here and
wait for Mr. Shalimar to come in, and look at Brenda's new nightgown looking so out of place alongside her typewriter and filing cards, and amuse herself wondering what kind of man Brenda was buying all these goodies for. Some moose face, probably.
The usual procession of late-comers was straggling in through the door. Mr. Rice, in tliat wonderful camel's-hair overcoat, with his clear-cut profile beginning to fade away a little at the edges. His eyes were slits this morning, and there was a little cut with dried blood at the corner of his mouth. He paused as usual for a long drink at the water fountain and found his way to his oflBce like a sleepwalker.
"Psst . . . look at that!" Mary Agnes prodded her, shocked.
"Our eminent religious editor," Caroline whispered, "after a struggle with the devil." She didn't know, a moment after she'd said it, why she had felt compelled to make fun of him. Actually, he fascinated her, in a way. Perhaps that was why she had said it.
"The devil?" Mary Agnes whispered back
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