Bertha Cool’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
Fosdick said, “We are making no admissions and no concessions whatever, Mrs. Cool, but we definitely do not agree with you concerning the statement that our insured was intoxicated.”
Bertha laughed sarcastically. “Your man was so dead drunk,” she said, “that he can’t even remember the name and address of the woman whom he struck.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” Fosdick said with the slow speech of one who is meticulously choosing his words. “The young woman became hysterical and was hardly accountable for her actions.”
“And your man couldn’t even remember where he took her,” Bertha said.
“Pardon, Mrs. Cool, but the young lady was so hysterical that she refused to permit the insured to carry her all the way home, nor would she tell him where she lived when she finally got out of the automobile.”
The door of the private office opened. Elsie Brand came in with the telegram. “If you’ll just check this over,” she said, “the messenger boy is in the outer office.”
Bertha Cool snatched at the telegram and slid it under the blotter of her desk. “Give the boy ten cents,” she said. “I’m not going to send the telegram just now.”
“Ten cents?” Elsie Brand asked.
“Well,” Bertha conceded reluctantly. “Make it fifteen. I’m busy and don’t disturb me. I’ll send this telegram later.”