# Munsey's Magazine/Volume 94/Issue 1/Inches and Ells

Extracted from Munsey's, June 1928, pp. 74–79. Title illustration may be omitted.
“I DO LOVE YOU, DOUGLAS!” SHE WHISPERED
Inches and Ells
A STORY WHICH EXPLAINS WHY MILDRED GRAHAM DECIDED, AS MANY OTHER GIRLS HAVE DE- CIDED BEFORE HER, THAT MEN ARE QUEER
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
She listened to his footsteps, going down and down the stone stairs, until the echo died away; and still she stood as if she were listening, one hand on the back of a chair, her lips parted, a faint frown on her brow.
But the silence settled about her, and even her own fast-beating heart and quickened breathing grew quieter.
“He's gone,” she said aloud.
Very well! She had told him to go, and she wanted him to go. She turned away from the doorway and went toward her bedroom.
“I never should have let him call here,” she thought. “He doesn't understand. He's impossible. I knew it, too. I knew that if I gave him an inch, he'd take ells and ells!”
She was surprised and displeased to feel tears running down her cheeks.
“How silly!” she said to herself. “I'll see him again to-morrow; and if he's sorry—if he apologizes—”
She clasped her hands tight, struggling against a sob.
“I'll go to bed and get a good night's sleep,” she thought. “In the morning—”
But the tears would not stop. She saw her orderly little room in a mist. The silver on the dressing table made a dazzling blur, and the edge of the mirror was like a rainbow.
“Silly!” she said to herself.
There before her were the precious photographs of her father and her mother, in a double frame. She picked them up and looked at them, blinking away the tears until the beloved faces were clear to her. They had trusted her to come to New York alone, to manage her own life with dignity and discretion; they counted upon her not being silly.
At this moment they would be sitting in the library at home, in the serene quiet of their mutual affection and understanding. Perhaps her father would be writing at his table, his gray head bent over some scientific treatise, and her mother would be sewing or reading; but whatever they were doing, their child would not be forgotten. The thought of her would come to them at any moment. They must miss her, but they were proud of her and sure of her.
“I've got to make Douglas see,” she said to herself. “He's got to show decent respect for me. I know he's fond of me, but—”
The tears came again in a rush.
“I know he's fond of me,” she thought, and remembered the ring.
Imagine his coming like that, with a ring to put on her finger, before he had even asked her if she liked him! The very first time she had asked him here, too! Catching her roughly in his arms and kissing her!
He had shown no trace of delicacy or respect, no appreciation of the honor done him in being asked here. He knew that she was quite alone, and he had taken advantage of it. Kissing her like that, when she had forbidden him!
Well, she had made him realize her just resentment. She had sent him away, him and his ring, not angrily, but quietly.
“If he had even said he was sorry,” she thought. “Perhaps he will to-morrow.”
All the time she undressed, the tears were running down her face.
“Because I'm so disappointed,” she told herself. “I didn't think he'd be like that.”
She had seen him in the office every day for two months, and once she had gone out to lunch with him, and once to dinner; and she had felt that a very beautiful thing was beginning. She had seen in his gray eyes a look that made her heart beat fast, had heard in his voice a queer, grudging tenderness not to be forgotten.
She had known, of course, that he was not quite the man she had dreamed of, no knightly figure of romance. His manner was abrupt and domineering. More than once she had seen him lose his temper with some unlucky fellow worker, and speak in a grim white anger that distressed her bitterly; but he was so honest and so uncompromising! She had respected that, and had admired his tireless energy, his undoubted cleverness.
There were not many men of his age who had gone as far as he—head of a department at twenty-four. Yes, she had been justified in liking him; but there were those other things, those unreasonable things. When she thought of him, it was not his business ability that she remembered, but his quick smile, his steady glance, his way of scowling and running his hand over the back of his head.
“If he just says he's sorry to-morrow,” she thought. “If he'll just realize that he was—horrible!”
She fell asleep in a troubled and confused mood, and waked the next morning with a heavy heart.
“I won't be weak and silly,” she thought. “If he's not sorry—if he can't show the proper respect for me—then it's finished!”
II
She was sitting at her typewriter when he came into the office. She heard his curt “good morning” to some one else, heard his footsteps behind her. A wave of emotion rushed over her, so that for an instant she could not breathe; but she sat very quiet, the slender, neat, dark-haired Miss Graham that the office always beheld.
Almost at once he sent for her. She rose, took her notebook and pencil, and went into his private office.
“Shut the door,” he said.
The color rose in her cheeks, but she paid no heed to the command. He rose and shut the door himself.
“Look here!” he said. “I—I shouldn't have made such a fool of myself, only I thought you—liked me.”
Her cheeks were flaming now. She looked straight into his face.
“If that's the way you look at it—” she said.
“I came to you,” he said. “I offered you all I had, and you told me to get out.”
“Do you mean to say,” she cried, “that you don't see how outrageous you were?”
They stood facing each other, like enemies.
“No,” he said, “I don't see. I thought that if you asked me there, you had been nice to me. I thought you liked me. Now that I see you don't, I'm sorry.”
“You just call it making a fool of yourself, to be so arrogant and disrespectful?”
“I wasn't arrogant!” he replied hotly. “Call it arrogance to come and ask a girl to marry you—to offer her all you have?”
“I suppose I should have felt honored,” she said, with a faint smile.
His own face flushed.
“Damned if I see what more you can expect!”
“I expect respect from a man,” she told him.
“Do you think I'd ask you to marry me if I didn't respect you?”
“The way you did it!” she cried. “It was—”
“If you cared for me,” he said, “you wouldn't have minded my—my kissing you.”
“Yes, I should!”
Their eyes met.
“Oh, Mildred!” he cried. “Do you mean you do care?”
A panic fear seized her.
“I don't!” she said. “No—I—it's not fair to make me stand here and listen to you!”
He turned on his heel and walked over to the window.
“All right,” he said unsteadily. “You needn't stay.”
She opened the door and went back into the outer office. She knew that the other girls would notice her hot color, would see that she had no dictation to transcribe, and would talk about it. She was humiliated, and it was his fault.
“I hate him!” she thought, and was shocked.
It was wrong and horrible to hate. It was shameful to be so angry and shaken.
“He's not worth bothering about,” she thought. “He is arrogant. He's domineering and conceited. He calls it making a fool of himself to insult and hurt me.”
She did not see him again that morning. He used the dictaphone for his letters, and presently she had them to type. It was strange to hear his voice in her ears, his impatient young voice:
“No, cross that out. No, begin it all over.”
All that long day, and all the next day, went by without a word or glance between them. The following morning was Saturday, a half holiday, and Mildred was going, as usual, to spend the week-end at home. She came to the office dressed for traveling, and bringing her bag with her.
She went directly into Randall's little office.
“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I'm leaving to-day.”
He looked up at her.
“You're supposed to give a week's notice,” he said.
“I'm sorry, but I'm not coming back.”
“I haven't—bothered you,” he said.
After she had returned to her own desk, his voice echoed in her ears, miserable, angry, and forlorn:
“I haven't bothered you.”
“I can't help it,” she thought. “I can't stay here.”
Promptly at twelve o'clock Randall left the office, without a word to any one. The door closed behind him.
“He's gone,” she thought. “I won't see him again!”
And it seemed to her that his going left all the world empty and desolate.
“His lordship isn't quite so gay this morning,” said the girl next to her. “He got an awful calling down. Mr. Williams sent for him. I was in Mr. Pratt's office, and we both heard every word. I was tickled to death! I can't stand Randall.”
“What was the matter?” asked Mildred, her eyes on her work.
“Oh, it seems that Randall had been out with the boys last night, playing poker and drinking, and Mr. Williams heard about it. When Randall made a mistake in his work this morning, the old man jumped on him—told him he wasn't up to his work, and that if he kept on like that he'd get the gate—told him he was expected to get here in the morning fresh and fit. Oh, he just jumped on him! I was tickled to death, Randall's so high-hat.”
“What did he say?” asked Mildred.
“What could he say? 'All right, sir. Yes, sir! No, sir!' He had to come down off his high horse that time!”
Mildred had a vision of young Randall, not domineering and energetic, but standing downcast and unhappy before his chief.
“I think it's a shame!” she cried suddenly. “Mr. Williams might have closed the door, anyhow, so that no one would hear!”
“It 'll do Randall good,” said the other, with satisfaction.
“No, it won't!” Mildred retorted.
She felt certain that humiliation would not do Randall good, but harm. A great anger filled her, and a curious fear.
“He can't stand that,” she thought. “He won't stand it. He'll do something silly. If Mr. Williams had just talked to him quietly and nicely—if some one would—”
III
She had lunch alone in a little tea room, and all the while she thought of Randall, the arrogant, who had been humiliated and humbled. Playing poker and drinking! They were things utterly outside her experience, and the thought of them filled her with dismay and alarm.
“He's so reckless,” she thought. “He told me he was all alone in New York. There's no one to talk to him.”
That public reprimand had come to him just after she had told him that she was leaving. Perhaps that ring had been in his pocket at the time—the ring that he must have bought with such a high heart.
Through the tea room window she could look out on the crowded street. That was the world out there—the world he lived in, hurried, careless, and jostling; and he was pushing his way through it, hurried himself and careless and solitary.
“I can't let him go like this, without a word,” she thought. “Perhaps if I just spoke to him—nicely, it might help.”
It was hard for her to do that, for it was he who should have come to her, should have asked her not to go away, should have tried to set himself right with her.
“Now he'll think I didn't really mind his behaving that way,” she thought. “He'll be hard to manage, if I encourage him.”
But she had to do it. Reluctantly, with a heavy heart, she telephoned to the address he had given her.
“Randall's not in,” said a cheerful masculine voice. “I expect him any minute. Can I take a message?”
She hesitated.
“Yes, please,” she said at last. “If you'll tell him that Miss Graham is leaving for Hartford on the five o'clock train, and that she'd like to see him at the Grand Central for a moment before she goes.”
“Miss Graham—leaving on the five o'clock train for Hartford—wants to see him at the Grand Central. Right! I've got it all written down.”
That was a later train than she had meant to take, and there was a long time to be filled. She went into the book department of a big store and picked out something to read—a serious book, the sort she had been brought up to appreciate. Then she went to a tea room and had a plate of ice cream.
At half past four she reached the station, and stood near the gates of the train, waiting—such a neat, composed, dignified young creature, with her book under her arm. At heart she was nervous, but she meant to try. She was going to speak to Randall gravely and earnestly. She would not encourage him too much, but she would offer him her friendship, if he would be worthy of it. It was a difficult thing for her to do, this cherished only daughter, so sheltered, so gently bred, so quietly proud in her own honorable and blameless life. She had taken a step down in doing this.
Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady and clear, searching the crowd for him. It was right to try and help him.
He was late in coming. Only fifteen minutes now—only ten minutes!
On impulse she hurried to a telephone.
“He hasn't got the message,” she thought. “I'll just say good-by. I'll tell him that perhaps I'll see him again.”
The same masculine voice answered.
“I did give him the message,” it protested; “but you see, he's got a little party on here. He must have lost track of the time. I'll call him.”
“No!” she cried. “Thank you. Good-by!”
He had got her message and he had not troubled to come. She had to run now to catch the train. He hadn't come. He didn't care.
She stopped short as she reached the gates.
“All abo-o-ard!” cried the conductor.
But she did not go. She turned away from the train with a strange blank look on her face.
“I can't!” she thought. “I love him. I can't go like this!”
She was surprised to find that it had grown dark when she reached the street. A cold wind blew, and the myriad flashing lights of Forty-Second Street, the noise, the crowds, confused her. Her composure and her dignified self-reliance were gone; she felt desolate and abandoned.
“What's the matter with me?” she thought with a sob. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. He got my message—and he didn't come!”
She tried to stop a taxi, but they all went past.
“But he wanted to come!” she cried in her heart. “I know he wanted to come, only he's too proud. I hurt him too much.”
He would not come to her, so she was going to him. Was it possible?
“I don't care!” she said to herself. “I won't go away like this!”
At last she stopped a cab.
“If he sees me—” she thought.
For somehow she, who knew so little of love and life, knew that if he saw her his stubborn pride would be melted. She must do it, at any cost to her own pride.
Terribly pale, she entered the hall of the apartment house where he lived. The hall boy came forward.
“Mr. Randall? I'll telephone up.”
“N-no, thank you,” she said. “I'll just go up.”
“It's the rule—” the boy began; but after a glance at her pale, set face he resigned himself with a sigh, and took her up in the elevator.
He watched her going along the hall, so slender and straight, still with the serious book under her arm.
She rang the bell, and waited. She rang again, and the door was flung open with a crash by a cheerful, fair-haired young fellow.
“I want to see Mr. Randall,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment.
“Ran!” he called. “Come here! Some one to see you!”
IV
From a room at the end of the hall young Randall appeared in his shirt sleeves, with his dark hair ruffled and his face flushed.
“Mildred!” he cried.
The fair-haired fellow disappeared.
“Mildred!” said Randall again.
She tried to speak, but she could not. She stood there just outside the door, with the book under her arm, only looking at him.
He came down the hall to her. He, too, was silent. From the room at the back she could hear laughter and the rattle of chips, and the air was heavy with tobacco smoke.
“Come in!” he said.
She shook her head mutely, but he took her hand, drew her into the little sitting room at the right, and closed the door after him.
A terrible despair filled her. She had done this incredible thing, come here after him, and now he would despise her!
“Sit down!” he said.
She was glad to do so, for her knees were trembling.
“I couldn't—” she said unsteadily. “I couldn't go—I was afraid.”
“Oh, darling!” he cried. He was on his knees beside her chair, with his dark head bent on her arm. “Oh, my darling girl!”
“Douglas!” she breathed, amazed, incredulous.
“I'm so sorry!” he said in a muffled voice. “My darling girl! For you to come here—you little angel! I'm so sorry!”
“I just thought—” she faltered.
“I'm so sorry!” he cried again. “I wish I could tell you! You're such an angel, and I'm not fit to speak to you!”
She laid her hand on his head. He caught it in his own and raised it to his lips in reverence.
“Mildred,” he said, “you don't know how I feel. I mean it when I say I'm at your feet.”
“But—” she began, and stopped, struggling with a new idea. “Is it like this?” she thought. “If I'm just kind to him, and generous—”
If she stooped in love and pity—if she came down from her pedestal—would he worship her? She put her arm around his neck.
“I do love you, Douglas!” she whispered.
He rose to his feet.
“Mildred,” he said, “you'll see—I'll do anything for you! I'm not half good enough, but, Mildred, I'll try. I don't care how long you want me to wait. I'll do anything you tell me!”
When she had given him an inch, he had taken an ell; but when she was reckless in her giving, he stood before her like this, utterly humble.
“Just tell me what you want,” he said.
She was silent for a moment.
“I'd like you to come out to Hartford and see my father and mother,” she said gravely.
“All right!” he said. “I'll get my hat and coat.”
He left the door of the room open, and she could hear his curt voice in the back room.
“I'm going, boys.”
“You can't break up the party!” protested an indignant voice.
“I've got to go,” he said. “My—the girl I'm engaged to—wants me to go out to see her people.”
“Henpecked already!” observed the same indignant voice.
“Good-by!” said Randall. “You can take my chips, Fry. We'll settle up later.”
When she had been dignified and reserved, he had been angry and unmanageable. When she ran after him, at such a cost to her pride, she became his sovereign lady, whose least word he obeyed.
“Men are queer!” thought Mildred.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1955, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 68 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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