"Think we rather had them, eh, Graham?"

"Think you did, sir. Carried them off their feet. Pretty, isn't it?" He
held up the shell-case. "If a fellow could only forget what the damned
things are for!"

"They are to help to end the war," said Clayton, crisply. "Don't forget
that, boy." And went back to his steady dictation.

Graham went out of the building into the mill yard. The noise always
irritated him. He had none of Clayton's joy and understanding of it.
To Clayton each sound had its corresponding activity. To Graham it was
merely din, an annoyance to his ears, as the mill yard outraged his
fastidiousness. But that morning he found it rather more bearable. He
stooped where, in front of the store, the storekeeper had planted a tiny
garden. Some small late-blossoming chrysanthemums were still there and
he picked one and put it in his buttonhole.

His own office was across the yard. He dodged in front of a yard
locomotive, picked his way about masses of lumber and the general litter
of all mill yards, and opened the door of his own building. Just inside
his office a girl was sitting on a straight chair, her hat a trifle
crooked, and her eyes red from crying. He paused in amazement.

"Why, Miss Klein!" he said. "What's the matter?"

She was rather a pretty girl, even now. She stood up at his voice and
made an effort to straighten her hat.