Masterson thought it over as he warmed his hands. His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, and he rose to open it. An old, shabby woman stood in the hall.
She was wrinkled and veined, with yellowish white hair, vacuous, watery gray eyes, a red, bulbous nose, and a miserable chin. She had nothing of the dignity of age, and her thin, cruel lips were her only signs of character. All other traits were submerged by drink and poverty. Her skirt was ridiculously short and her black shawl ragged and full of holes. She breathed of beer.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Riley?" said Masterson. "I'm sorry to say I'm engaged at present and you'll have to wait. Can't you sit down on the stairs for a while?"
"Oh, dear, but that fire looks good!" she whined. "Can't I just come in and have a seat to rest my bones on? I'm feeling that miserable this day that I can't stand."
"Let her come in," said Granthope, rising. "I've said all that's necessary at present, and if you decide to do what I want, we can talk it over later."
The doctor grudgingly admitted her. She tottered in and took the chair by the fire gratefully. She had looked at Granthope when he first spoke, and now she kept her eyes fixed on him as he stood by the window.
Masterson went over to him and spoke in a lower tone. "I got to have time to think this thing over," he said. "Then, if I accept your offer, we got to discuss ways and means, and so forth and so on. I won't say yes, and I won't say no, just at present. I'll think it over and let you know, Frank."
The woman started at the name. Her lower lip fell pendulous. Her eyes were still on Granthope.
"When will you let me know?" he asked.
"I tell you what I'll do; I'm busy to-day, and I got an engagement to-night. Suppose I come down to your office after theater time? Say ten-thirty. Will that do?"