“Hello, Mac!” she called.
But it was not Miss McCarty who answered. It was Pem.
“You home, Nickie?” she said. “That’s nice.”
She came into the bedroom. Nickie sat up and stared at her with wide eyes.
“For Pete’s sake!” she exclaimed. “What’s the meaning of all this, Pem?”
“I don’t know,” replied Pem slowly. She had taken off her hat and coat, and was looking at herself in the glass—at her carefully dressed hair, the artful touch of color in her cheeks, the new frock of navy twill with red leather buttons. “I look rather nice, don’t I, Nickie?”
“Yes,” said Nickie, “stunning; but—well, I suppose I’m not used to it. But what’s the reason, Pem?”
Pem’s explanation did not satisfy her. Pem said that her patient was a wealthy young woman suffering from a mild form of melancholia. She had to be diverted, and—
“I had to look halfway decent, going about with her,” said Pem. “She wanted me to.”
“Finished now?” Nickie asked.