"No. You were saying, Mrs. Dupree, three classifications?"
"Yes, I'll give you a booklet, dearie. The rates vary according to age. Up to one, then one to three, and three to five. We've our own cows, sterilizing machines—"
"How much did you say, Mrs. Dupree, up to one year?"
"Six hundred dollars a year, in quarterly advance payments."
They were down again in the wide, cool hallway, little kindergarten voices of children shrilling through from one of the playrooms.
A white nurse passed them, tilting a white perambulator down a flight of white stone stairs.
"Six hundred dollars a year. That—that would make one hundred and fifty dollars—in advance," said Lilly, trying to keep the muscles of her face from quivering.
"Right, dearie."
"I—why—I—I'm afraid—"
"No hurry, dearie. Think it over. It just happens we have a bed on the infant floor right now, so I'd make up my mind right quickly if I were you. Think it over. You know best."