Mason pushed the mail to one side. “Shucks, Della, I hate letters. Letters are inanimate. I like people. People are animate. I like to puzzle with human problems.”
Della Street regarded the discarded mail with solicitous eyes, and steeled herself against the magnetism of Mason’s boyish grin. “After all,” she said, “you can’t eat dessert all the time, Chief. You have to have some bread and butter.”
“Not dessert, Della,” Mason said. “I want meat, red meat, and lots of it. Come on, be a good girl, and tell me about the clients.”
Della Street sighed. “A Miss Leeds, a Miss Milicant, and a Mr. Barkler are waiting in the outer office. They’re together, but Miss Leeds wants to talk with you for a few moments before you see the others.”
“What’s it about, Della?”
“A rich man whose relatives want his money.”
“I don’t like rich people,” Mason said, pushing his hands down in his pockets. “I like poor people.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice showing her interest.
“Darned if I know,” Mason said. “Rich people worry too much, and their problems are too damn petty. They stew up a high blood pressure over a one-point drop in the interest rate. Poor people get right down to brass tacks: love, hunger, murder, forgery, embezzlement — things a man can sink his teeth into, things he can sympathize with.”
“I told them I thought you wouldn’t be interested,” Della Street said, “that you specialized in trial work.”