"Then we'll both sign this slip of paper, so we'll know where we stand," he suggested.
After Duffy had ponderously signed his name with a heavy, gold-banded fountain-pen, the operator took his place. The paper seemed nothing more than a receipt, yet something about its wording was repugnant to him. He did not take time to analyse his feeling; he was too oppressed by the thought of the woman and the near-by door. He ventured one half-hearted objection, however, as Duffy thrust the pen in his hand.
"I can't say I altogether like this," he complained.
"Why not?"
McKinnon forced a laugh.
"It sounds like an army commission."
"Where'd you want it changed?" Duffy demanded as he fell to pacing the cabin. His wandering threw McKinnon into a sudden panic.
"It's not the wording—it's the signing of a thing like this."
"Of course it is," the other agreed, mild and indulging, as a doctor might be with a peevish and restless patient. "But weren't you saying you wanted to make this every-day work of yours a little more romantic?"
He had stopped in front of the closet door
