With Kitty there were little hurried confabs each day outside the apartment door in the hallway before the elevator shaft. A veil of awe seemed to wrap the Drew woman.
"I can't get it out of my head, Hester. It's like a fairy story, and, in another way, it's a scream—Wheeler standing for this."
"Sh-h, Kitty! His ears are so sensitive."
"Quit shushing me every time I open my mouth. Poor kid! Let me have a look at him. He wouldn't know."
"No! No!"
"God! if it wasn't so sad it would be a scream—Wheeler footing the bills!"
"Oh—you! Oh—oh—you!"
"All right, all right! Don't take the measles over it. I'm going. Here's some chicken broth I brought down. Ed sent it up to me from Sherry's."
But Hester poured it into the sink for some nameless reason, and brewed some fresh from a fowl she tipped the hallboy a dollar to go out and purchase.
She slept on a cot at the foot of his bed, so sensitive to his waking that almost before he came up to consciousness she was at his side. All day she wore the little white shirt waists, a starchy one fresh each morning, and at night scratchy little unlacy nightgowns with long sleeves and high yokes. He liked to run his hand along the crispness of the fabric.