“Oh, yes, she’s a woman. She’s said to be very—very attractive.”
Dirk sent for Dallas O’Mara. She replied, suggesting an appointment two weeks from that date. Dirk decided not to wait, consulted other commercial artists, looked at their work, heard their plans outlined, and was satisfied with none of them. The time was short. Ten days had passed. He had his secretary call Dallas O’Mara on the telephone. Could she come down to see him that day at eleven?
No: she worked until four daily at her studio.
Could she come to his office at four-thirty, then?
Yes, but wouldn’t it be better if he could come to her studio where he could see something of the various types of drawings—oils, or black-and-white, or crayons. She was working mostly in crayons now.
All this relayed by his secretary at the telephone to Dirk at his desk. He jammed his cigarette-end viciously into a tray, blew a final infuriated wraith of smoke, and picked up the telephone connection on his own desk. “One of those damned temperamental near-artists trying to be grand,” he muttered, his hand over the mouthpiece. “Here, Miss Rawlings—I’ll talk to her. Switch her over.”
“Hello, Miss—uh—O’Mara. This is Mr. De Jong talking. I much prefer that you come to my office and talk to me.” (No more of this nonsense.)
Her voice: “Certainly, if you prefer it. I thought the other would save us both some time. I'll be
