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Moths in the Arc Light
by
“None of their business, anyway!” he said feebly. But he observed to his stenographer: “What a rush! Guess I won’t go out for lunch. ” He strolled past the desk of young Crackins, the bookkeeper, whom he suspected of being the office wit and of collecting breaks on the part of the boss as material for delicious scandal.
“Pretty busy, Crackins? Well, so am I. Fact, I don’t think I’ll go out to lunch. Just have a bite here. ”
Having provided dimmers for the fierce light that beats about a glass-topped desk he drew a straight chair to the window and spread his feast on the broad sill at a few minutes after twelve. Emily was gnawing a doughnut and drinking a glass of milk. He bowed, but he inoffensively nibbled half a sandwich before he got over his embarrassment and ventured to offer her a bite. She was motionless, the doughnut gravely suspended in air. She sprang up— left the window.
“Curse it, double curse it! Fool! Beast! Couldn’t even let her eat lunch in peace! Intruding on her—spoiling her leisure. ”
Emily had returned to the window. She showed him a small water glass. She half filled it with milk from her own glass, and diffidently held it out. He rose and extended his hand for it. Across the windy space he took her gift and her greeting.
He laughed; he fancied that she was laughing back, though he could see her face only as a golden blur in the thin fall sunshine. They settled down, sharing lunches. He was insisting on her having another cup of coffee when he was conscious that the door to his private room had opened, that someone was entering.
Frantically he examined a number of imaginary specks on his cup. He didn’t dare turn to see who the intruder was. He held up the cup, ran a finger round the edge and muttered “Dirty!” The intruder pattered beside him. Bates looked up at him innocently. It was Crackins, the office tease. And Crackins was grinning.
“Hair in the soup, Mr. Bates?”
“In the—Oh! Oh, yes. Hair in the soup. Yes. Dirty—dirty cup— have speak—speak housekeeper,” Bates burbled.
“Do you mind my interrupting you? I wanted to ask you about the Farmers’ Rail-line credit. They’re three weeks behind in payment—”
Did Bates fancy it or was Crackins squinting through the window at Emily? With an effusiveness that was as appropriate to him as a mandolin to an Irish contractor, Bates bobbed up and led Crackin back to the main office. He couldn’t get away for ten minutes. When he returned Emily was leaning against the window jamb and he saw her by a leaded casement in the bishop’s mansion, dreaming on hollyhocks and sundial below.
She pantomimed the end of her picnic; turned her small black lunch box upside down and spread her hands with a plaintive gesture of “All gone!” He offered her coffee, sandwiches, a bar of chocolate; but she refused each with a shy, quick shake of her head. She pointed at her typewriter, waved once, and was back at work.
As Christmas approached, as New York grew so friendly that men nodded to people who hadn’t had the flat next door for more than seven years, Bates wondered if Emily’s Christmas would be solitary. He tried to think of a way to send her a remembrance. He couldn’t. But on the day before he brought an enormous wreath to the office, and waited till he caught her eye. Not till four-thirty, when the lights were on, did he succeed. He hung the wreath at the window and bowed to her, one hand on his heart, the other out in salutation.