“I just brought you a couple of extra towels. We were short this morning,” she said.
The room was warm, and quiet, and bright. In her bathroom, that glistened with blue and white tiling, were those redundant towels. Fanny stood in the doorway and counted them, whimsically. Four great fuzzy bath towels. Eight glistening hand towels. A blue and white bath rug hung at the side of the tub. Her telephone rang. It was Ella.
“Where in the world have you been, child? I was worried about you. I thought you were lost in the streets of New York.”
“I took a 'bus ride,” Fanny explained.
“See anything of New York?”
“I saw all of it,” replied Fanny. Ella laughed at that, but Fanny's face was serious.
“How did you make out at Horn & Udell's? Never mind, I'm coming in for a minute; can I?”
“Please do. I need you.”
A moment later Ella bounced in, fresh as to blouse, pink as to cheeks, her whole appearance a testimony to the revivifying effects of a warm bath, a brief nap, clean clothes.
“Dear child, you look tired. I'm not going to stay. You get dressed and I'll meet you for dinner. Or do you want yours up here?”