Of course, he had no real personal grudge against James Arrowsmith. Without him----! He smiled as he set his signature at the foot of yet another letter. That was a long time ago! And he had prophesied it--he remembered, suddenly, his own words--“Give me ten years and I’ll _eat_ James Arrowsmith!” Ten years! He glanced involuntarily at the calendar in front of him, read the date--1932. By Jove, it _was_ ten years--ten years ago--Betty’s birthday! He glanced again at the calendar--and dropped his pen on the desk with a sharp exclamation of annoyance. Good Lord, of course it was! It was Betty’s birthday to-day! And he had forgotten it!
For a moment or two he stared in front of him, his brows contracted into a frown which was directed impartially at circumstance and himself. He had been so terribly busy of late--but, of course, he must find time. Poor old Betty! He took up the telephone instrument on his desk, gave a number.
“Hallo! That you, Betty?--Jack. Jack speaking. Many happy returns of the day! What?--Of course I remembered!--What?--Well, it’s only five o’clock,” his tone was one of self-extenuation. “I say, old girl! We’ll go out to dinner--any restaurant you like! What? You’ve got an appointment?” He repeated the words incredulously. “Oh, very well!--I say, Betty! You haven’t got a cold or anything, have you?--Oh, all right--no, I only thought your voice sounded strange.” He frowned. “Very well--do as you like! Good-bye!” He put back the receiver with a vicious thud.
Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, while he gave directions to the series of sub-editors who came deferentially into his presence, an obscure worry persisted at the back of his consciousness. Of course--he had to confess it--he had neglected her of late. How long was it since he had been home? Only a month--or five weeks? The foreground of his brain, working at full pressure on the problems continuously submitted to it for instant decision, failed to solve the question--relegated it to be worried over by that independent consciousness at the back of his mind. It was a long time, anyway! Of course she understood. It was the paper--the paper to which he was the slave--which, practically, he never quitted (he had a bedroom in the building)--the paper of which he personally read every item that was printed and an enormous quantity of copy which was not--the paper which was his pride, his joy, his one interest in life! Of course, she understood--but it was rough on her. Poor old Betty! He thought of her strange voice, and winced with remorse. She had been brooding over no letter that morning. If only she would have gone to dinner with him! He felt that he could have explained things, put everything straight. But she had an appointment! What appointment? With whom? He put a thought out of his mind, and the thought peeped persistently over the barrier. Impossible, of course! Preposterous! Docile little Betty? Besides--who could there be? His vanity was scornful of the idea.