Della's voice was far removed, like one who speaks through the film of a trance.
"When my old dame died I felt bad, too, but Gawd knows she wasn't peaches and cream to have around the house. And look, darlin'—Cottie's comin' now—look—Cottie's comin'!"
"Cottie—Cottie—comin'?"
"Sure she is—see, read, honey—'Am ready.'"
"Oh, Gawd, Ysobel, now that it's come I—I'm scared—she—she's such a kid—she—Ysobel—I—I'm scared—I—"
"'Sh-h-h. There he is knockin', Del. Try and smile, hon'. You know how sore a long face makes him. Maybe you won't have to go to-night, now—smile, darlin'—smile! Come in!"
The door opened with a fling, and enter Mr. Hy Myers, an unlighted cigar at a sharp oblique in one corner of his mouth, hat slightly askew, and a full-length overcoat flung open to reveal a mink lining and studded shirt-front.
"Gad," he said, dallying backward on his heels, his thumbs in the arm-circles of his waistcoat, and regarding the shining silver figure—"Gad, girl, you're all right."
Della drew back against the dressing-table and twirled the rings on her fingers.
"I—I got bad news, Hy. I can't go to-night. Here, read for yourself."