“Sorry,” I said in a tone of finality.
“Wait a minute. When can I see you?”
“When I make my next trip through here.”
“When will that be?”
“Three or four months.”
There was an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, hang it — I’m dressing. Wait a minute. I’ll throw something on and open the door. Come on up.”
The buzzer sounded, and I climbed a flight of stairs and walked down a long corridor, looking at door numbers.
Edna Cutler, attired in a blue dressing-gown, stood in the doorway waiting for me. She said, “I thought you shipped by mail.”
“We do.”
“Well, come on in. Let’s get it over with. Why did you come personally?”