The Romance of a Busy Broker

Pitcher, the confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, stockbroker, had worked for his employer long enough to have stopped being surprised by anything. It was therefore with only a flicker of interest that he noticed one morning that the broker had, for once, arrived together with his young stenographer, Miss Leslie. Maxwell came in at his usual furious pace, threw a quick "Good morning, Pitcher" over his shoulder, crossed the room in three strides, and was buried in his letters and telegrams before his hat had stopped swinging on its hook.

Miss Leslie had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year, and that morning there was something different about her. She looked radiant, and a small spray of lily of the valley was pinned to her dress. Instead of going to her own desk, she lingered at the door of his office, as though she expected him to say something. Maxwell did not look up. "Well, what is it?" he asked sharply. "Nothing," she said, smiling, and went out to her typewriter.

On the way she paused beside Pitcher. "Mr. Pitcher," she said, "did Mr. Maxwell mention anything to you yesterday about a new stenographer?" He had, Pitcher told her: he had been instructed to find another one and had telephoned the agency the afternoon before, so a young lady would be arriving that very morning. Miss Leslie thanked him and, still smiling, sat down to work.

Shortly before ten the candidate appeared, in an enormous hat and with a look of great determination, and Pitcher brought her in. Maxwell glared up at them like a general interrupted in the middle of a battle. When Pitcher explained, the broker stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "I gave no such order," he said. "Miss Leslie has done excellent work for a whole year, and as far as I'm concerned the job is hers for as long as she wants it. Pitcher, cancel that order with the agency." The young woman swept out in a state of considerable indignation, and Pitcher, who had his own opinion about absent-minded employers, kept it to himself.

Then the market opened, and for the next few hours the office was hit by something very like a hurricane. Maxwell was everywhere at once, buying and selling with the speed of a machine. He did not have a spare second, let alone a spare thought, for anything that was not printed on the tape in front of him.

Towards lunchtime, the storm died down into a sudden lull. Maxwell was standing by his desk when a faint, sweet scent drifted in through the open door: the lily of the valley that Miss Leslie wore. For one moment the market vanished from his mind, and he saw, as clearly as a stock price, that she was the only thing in the world he truly wanted. Being a man who never put off a decision, he made up his mind on the spot. He strode out to her typewriter and took her hand.

"Miss Leslie," he began in a rush, "I've got exactly one minute, so I'll come straight to the point. Will you marry me? There's been no time to court you the way you deserve, but I love you, I really do. Quickly, please: they're tearing Union Pacific to pieces out there." Miss Leslie stared at him; at first she looked astonished, then her eyes grew wet, and finally she began to laugh. She put her arm around his neck. "I know now," she said softly. "This wretched market has pushed everything else out of your head. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married at eight o'clock last night, at the Little Church Around the Corner."