Presently he was conscious of a melodious humming and a light leisurely
step at the entrance of the hall. They continued on in an easy harmony
and unaffected as the passage of a bird. Both were pleasant and both
familiar to the editor. They belonged to Jack Hamlin, by vocation a
gambler, by taste a musician, on his way from his apartments on
the upper floor, where he had just risen, to drop into his friend's
editorial room and glance over the exchanges, as was his habit before
breakfast.
The door opened lightly. The editor was conscious of a faint odor of
scented soap, a sensation of freshness and cleanliness, the impression
of a soft hand like a woman's on his shoulder and, like a woman's,
momentarily and playfully caressing, the passage of a graceful shadow
across his desk, and the next moment Jack Hamlin was ostentatiously
dusting a chair with an open newspaper preparatory to sitting down.
"You ought to ship that office-boy of yours, if he can't keep things
cleaner," he said, suspending his melody to eye grimly the dust which
Mr.
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