“You’re very kind, Mrs. Cool. Saturday and Sunday didn’t count, so I’ve only lost three days, so far. I get thirty a week, so the three days would amount to fifteen dollars, and the doctor charged ten. I’d want to collect twenty-five dollars from the insurance company.”
Bertha paused, her hand on the knob of the door. She said, “Don’t be a dope—” when knuckles sounded on the outside, a somewhat timid venturesome knock.
Josephine Dell said, “Open it, please.”
Bertha Cool opened the door.
A mild-mannered little man of fifty-seven or — eight, with a sandy moustache, slightly stooped shoulders, and blue eyes smiled at her. “You’re Miss Dell, aren’t you? I’m Christopher Milbers. I got through the outer door because I rang the wrong apartment. I’m sorry. I should have gone back out after I realized my mistake. I wanted to talk with you about my cousin. It was so sudden—”
“Not me,” Bertha said, standing to one side so that the man could see past her into the room. “This is Miss Dell. I was just calling on her.”
“Oh,” the man said apologetically.
“Come on in,” Josephine Dell called. “I won’t get up if you don’t mind, Mr. Milbers. I’ve been in an automobile accident. Nothing serious, but the doctor told me not to get up and down any more than necessary. I really feel that I know you. I’ve written quite a few letters to you at your cousin’s dictation.”
Milbers entered the room, beamed at Josephine Dell, and said solicitously, “You’ve been in an accident?”
She gave him her hand. “Just a minor accident. Do sit down.”