“ Mrs. C ool,” Bertha said, raising her voice. “I want to see him about business. I don’t have an appointment, and I’ve been here before. Practice your elocution on someone else. And— Oh, the hell with that stuff. I’m going in.”
Bertha strode across the room, heedless of the protests which the tall, angular woman made with a frigid formality.
She jerked the door open.
Everett Belder was tilted back in his chair, his feet up on the desk, ankles crossed, an open newspaper held in front of his face.
“It’s all right, Miss Horrison,” he said. “Just put the letters on the desk. I’ll sign them later.”
He turned the page of the paper.
Bertha Cool slammed the door shut with a jar that shook the pictures on the wall.
Everett Belder lowered his newspaper in surprised irritation. “Good heavens! It’s Mrs. Cool! Why didn’t you let Miss Horrison announce you?”
“Because I’m in a hurry,” Bertha said, “and she took too goddamned long pronouncing her words. Get that newspaper out of the way, and tell me what in hell you mean by firing Imogene Dearborne.”
Belder slowly folded the newspaper, frowned at Bertha.