 How was Orison treated by her female co-workers?
"I gotta say, chick, these references of yours really swing," said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. "What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. "That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji," Orison said. Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it with athletic vigor. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightly to Orison. "Yes, sir," Orison said. Beside them was a double-decked "In" and "Out" basket. "Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey," Mr. Wanji said. "Yes, sir," Orison said. "Yes, sir," Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank's might explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department's secretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall, girl Government spy. By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and had begun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. An odd business for a Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a microphone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in the book and took the elevator down to the ground floor. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, these gentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison stepped aboard the elevator. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgment of their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a penny into this curiousest of banks. Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together, eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, and favored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed, finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to her lonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book, reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga of Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on her light coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed, silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartment house—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Her boss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on Taft Bank from within, might prove dangerous.
 Guarded
 Welcoming  Indifferent  Friendly  Guarded