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 Maxwell, “who sounded very nice over the phone.”

“Now for heaven’s sake, Dorothy,” she warned her daughter, “don’t fidget when you get there. Remember you’re twenty-two. You're an artist. Let me do the talking.”

The Underwood office was arranged much like the other bureaus in the building. The door led into a small outer chamber inhabited by a switchboard operator and a typist. Back of a wooden railing were four small doors, side by side. Reading from left to right as you entered they announced that behind the doors were to be found Saul Maxwell, Mgr., Hamilton Harper, Asst. Mgr., Press Dept., and Shipping Room respectively. The proprietress of the switchboard announced “Mrs. Loamford calling on Mr. Maxwell,” and invited the visitors to wait until Mr. Maxwell had completed a conference. She offered them copies of musical magazines of July to while away the interval.

“Mr. Maxwell will see you now.”

Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford instinctively smoothed their garments and powdered their noses.

“First door to your left.”

Mrs. Loamford led the way through the little swinging gate and opened the first door to her left. A plump gentleman of medium height, almost bald save for a few long reddish‘blond hairs carefully plastered down arose from a mahogany armchair. He smiled, showing small white teeth, and motioned for them to enter, indicating chairs on either side of a large, glass-topped table. Dorothy noticed that a tall pale woman with obviously henna hair had her hand on the knob of a door which led to the adjoining compartment.

“Mrs, Loamford?” said Maxwell in a soft, precise voice.