The perfunctory “Hello!  Yes” was followed by a swift change of countenance, a surprised little cry, then,—­in quite another tone—­“Oh, it’s you, Jock!  I wasn’t expecting ...  No, not too busy to talk to you, you young chump!  Go on.”  A moment of silence, while Mrs. McChesney’s face smiled and glowed like a girl’s as she listened to the voice of her son.  Then suddenly glow and smile faded.  She grew tense.  Her head, that had been leaning so carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a jerk.  “Jock McChesney!” she gasped, “you—­why, you don’t mean!—­”

Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, interspersed with exclamation points.  Her poise and balance had become a proverb in the business world.  Yet her lips were trembling now.  Her eyes were very round and bright.  Her face had flushed, then grown white.  Her voice shook a little.  “Yes, of course I am.  Only, I’m so surprised.  Yes, I’ll be home early.  Five-thirty at the latest.”

She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture.  Her hand dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped again.  She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one thousand miles away.

From his office across the hall T.A.  Buck strolled in casually.

“Did Baumgartner say he’d—?” He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked up at him.  A quick step forward—­“What’s the matter, Emma?”

“Jock—­Jock—­”

“Jock!  What’s happened to the boy?” Then, as she still stared at him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder.  “Dear girl, tell me.”  He bent over her, all solicitude.

“Don’t!” said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand.  “Your stenographer can see—­What will the office think?  Please—­”

“Oh, darn the stenographer!  What’s this bad news of Jock?”

Emma McChesney sat up.  She smiled a little nervously and passed her handkerchief across her lips.  “I didn’t say it was bad, did I?  That is, not exactly bad, I suppose.”

T.A.  Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head.  “My dear child,” with careful politeness, “will you please try to be sane?  I find you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a ghost’s, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a death-blow.  And then you say, ’Not exactly bad’!”

“It’s this,” explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone:  “The Berg, Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their new Western branch.  They’re opening offices in Chicago in March.”  Her lower lip quivered.  She caught it sharply between her teeth.

For one surprised moment T.A.  Buck stared in silence.  Then a roar broke from him.  “Not exactly bad!” he boomed between laughs.  “Not exactly b—­Not ex_act_ly, eh?” Then he was off again.

Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence.  Then—­“Well, really, T.A., don’t mind me.  What you find so exquisitely funny—­”