“I guess you know the answers,” she said. “Move over here into the light where I can see you.”
I moved over.
She said, “You look young to be a reporter.”
“I am.”
“I can’t see clearly. This hotel wins the prize for being the worst, the poorest excuse for — a bellboy broke my spectacles within fifteen minutes of the time I hit town. He plunked a suitcase right down on top of them, smashed them all to pieces.”
I said, “That’s too bad. The only pair you had?”
“Yes. I’ve had to send for more. They should be here today.”
“Where,” I asked, “are they coming from?”
Her eyes sparkled and glittered at me. “My oculist,” she said.
“San Francisco?”