Chandler B. Corey was, as Roy had described him, a man of vivid personality. Although not yet in his fifties, he had a full head of silky white hair. In sharp contrast to this were his black bushy eyebrows and his black mustache which curled gracefully at the ends and which he had a habit of pulling whenever he was thinking hard. His skin was pink and clear as a boy’s, but there was nothing effeminate in his face with its heavy square jaw. There was a dynamic quality about him that communicated itself to everyone who came in contact with him, and yet with all his energy and fire, Jeannette noted there was an extraordinary gentleness about him, somewhat suggesting sadness.
On a day toward the end of her third week, she took a long and important letter from him. Miss Foster was struggling with a pile of other work he had already given her, and Mr. Smith sent Bertram upstairs with a request for Miss Sturgis to come down.
She had never been in Mr. Corey’s office before. At once she was struck with its quality. Compared with the noisy ruggedness and bare floors outside, it was quiet, luxurious. Sectional bookcases, filled to overflowing, and many autographed framed photographs lined walls that were covered with burlap. There were one or two large leather armchairs and in the center a great flat-topped desk heaped with manuscripts and stacks of clipped papers. A film of dust lay over many of these, and the scent of cigar smoke was in the air. Mr. Corey’s silvery head beyond the desk appeared as a startling blot of white against the background of warm brown.
She was surprised to discover how tersely he dictated. There was nothing of a literary quality about his sentences, nothing savoring of the polish of Mr. Cavendish. He was all business and dispatch. She felt oddly sorry for him; more than once during the brief quarter of an hour that she was with him a great sympathy for him came over her. He seemed weighed down with responsibilities. A paper mill was pressing him for money; no funds would be available for another three months; his letter offered them his note for ninety days. While he dictated, the telephone interrupted him; something had gone wrong with the linotype machines, and the delay would result in _The Wheel of Fortune_ being two or three days late on the news-stands. In the midst of this conversation Mr. Featherstone came in to report that Shreve & Baker had cancelled their advertisement and had definitely refused to renew it. An army of annoyances pressed around on every side.