 What did Orison do when she met Kraft Gerding?
Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. "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. By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and had begun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. 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. 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. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's observations in order. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. Orison lay down cautiously. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. "Of a sort," Monitor J-12 agreed. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by registered mail. At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pair of leather heels. "It's nothing," Orison said, switching off the microphone. "Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing any reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well," Orison said. "I'd love to," Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march, playing, from the elevator.
 She snapped at him and threatened to quit.
 She went to visit him on the upstairs floors.  She typed up a dictated letter for him.  She set up a date with him for that evening.  She snapped at him and threatened to quit.