"You might tap once at the door. I never disturb her in the morning. But I don't think she's sleeping."
Another code rule. These two—mother and daughter—treated one another with polite deference. Never intruded on each other's privacy. Rarely interfered with each other's engagements. Mrs. Kemp liked her breakfast in bed—a practice Charley loathed. Once a week a strapping Swedish damsel came to the apartment to give Mrs. Kemp a body massage and what is known as a "facial." You should have heard Mrs. Carrie Payson on the subject. Belle defended the practice, claiming that it benefited some obscure digestive ailment from which she suffered.
Lottie tapped at Belle's door. A little silence. Then an unenthusiastic voice bade her enter. Belle was in bed, resting. Belle looked her age in bed in the morning. Slightly haggard and a little yellow.
"I thought it must be you."
"It is."
Belle rolled a languid eye. "I woke up feeling wretched. How about this Gussie business?"
"I'm just going downtown. It'll turn out all right, I think."
"Just arrange things so that Gussie won't be upset for Tuesday. You wouldn't think she was nervous, to look at her. Great huge creature. But when she's upset! And I do so want that luncheon to be just right. Mrs. Radcliffe Phelps——"
Lottie could not restrain a little smile. "Oh, Belle."
Belle turned her head pettishly on the pillow. "Oh, Belle!" she mimicked in an astonishingly un-grown-up manner. Indeed, she sounded amazingly like the school-girl of Armour Institute days. "You're more like mother every day, Lottie." Lottie closed the door softly.