It was the rare individual, however, she observed, who had the long conversation with Cowperwood, and that interested her the more.

His instructions to her were always of the briefest, and he depended on her native intelligence to supply much that he scarcely more than suggested.
"You understand, do you ?" was his customary phrase.
"Yes," she would reply.
She felt as though she were fifty times as significant here as she had ever been in her life before.
The office was clean, hard, bright, like Cowperwood himself.

The morning sun, streaming in through an almost solid glass east front shaded by pale-green roller curtains, came to have an almost romantic atmosphere for her.

Cowperwood's private office, as in Philadelphia, was a solid cherry-wood box in which he could shut himself completely--sight-proof, sound-proof.

When the door was closed it was sacrosanct.