On his face was a smile, almost boyish.

“The fact is, I think I’ve got hold of the biggest single order that ever came into any mill in New England,” he declared.

“Oh, I’m glad,” she said quickly.

“The cotton cards—?” he demanded.

She knew he referred to the schedules, based on the current prices of cotton, made out in the agent’s office and sent in duplicate to the selling house, in Boston.  She got them from the shelf; and as he went over them she heard him repeating the names of various goods now become familiar, pongees, poplins, percales and voiles, garbardines and galateas, lawns, organdies, crepes, and Madras shirtings, while he wrote down figures on a sheet of paper.  So complete was his absorption in this task that Janet, although she had resented the insinuating pressure of his former attitude toward her, felt a paradoxical sensation of jealousy.  Presently, without looking up, he told her to call up the Boston office and ask for Mr. Fraile, the cotton buyer; and she learned from the talk over the telephone though it was mostly about “futures”—­that Ditmar had lingered for a conference in Boston on his way back from New York.  Afterwards, having dictated two telegrams which she wrote out on her machine, he leaned back in his chair; and though the business for the day was ended, showed a desire to detain her.  His mood became communicative.

“I’ve been on the trail of that order for a month,” he declared.  “Of course it isn’t my business to get orders, but to manage this mill, and that’s enough for one man, God knows.  But I heard the Bradlaughs were in the market for these goods, and I told the selling house to lie low, that I’d go after it.  I knew I could get away with it, if anybody could.  I went to the Bradlaughs and sat down on ’em, I lived with ’em, ate with ’em, brought ’em home at night.  I didn’t let ’em alone a minute until they handed it over.  I wasn’t going to give any other mill in New England or any of those southern concerns a chance to walk off with it—­not on your life!  Why, we have the facilities.  There isn’t another mill in the country can turn it out in the time they ask, and even we will have to go some to do it.  But we’ll do it, by George, unless I’m struck by lightning.”

He leaned forward, hitting the desk with his fist, and Janet, standing beside him, smiled.  She had the tempting gift of silence.  Forgetting her twinge of jealousy, she was drawn toward him now, and in this mood of boyish exuberance, of self-confidence and pride in his powers and success she liked him better than ever before.  She had, for the first time, the curious feeling of being years older than he, yet this did not detract from a new-born admiration.