it to hurt. The sight of him and his eyes on hers and him smile at her did it; when he spoke to her, in his nice, friendly way, he drew at something in her throat so that she could not speak. It hurt but she wanted it repeated; and harder. She wanted nothing so much as more of that hurt from him; and harder, harder. That was to love; to hurt and to want to hurt harder, harder. . . .
She reached the office and laid off her coat in the little closet between Mr. Rountree's room and her own beside it. The mail-clerk delivered to her the morning's tray of telegrams and letters for Mr. Rountree and left her alone with them at the big desk. Here was one from New York; on business.
"The Nucast business is safe," it said. That was good news; that would please Mr. Rountree. The Nucast account was a big one; bad to lose to the Slengels. More business messages: from Cleveland; from Baltimore; from New York. Another from New York, not business: personal, this; Amelia Cather Lytle signed it.
This was about Jay; for Amelia Cather Lytle was Mrs. Lytle, the mother of Lida. Not of Lida Lytle; the mother had married again, as wealthy people in New York so frequently did. Lida's name was Lida Haige; that girl in her teens at Miss Willett's school; that girl . . .
Then Ellen, with her hands pressed against her breast to stop the thumping of her heart, read the message.
Jay disembarked at the LaSalle Street station amid a medley of college boisterousness and business greetings. Mostly it was a college crowd clustered about the gates;
