“Eighth Street! Why, Della, that’s no street for decent doctors!”
“Lots of doctors advertise in the windows along there,” said Della sullenly. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to Dr. Norton.”
“And this other doctor told you what?”
Della shuddered convulsively. “He was horrible—horrible. Such an awful place with dreadful looking women around in the waiting room. And a man tried to flirt with me and the doctor patted me on the arm and told me that he could tell me more about it and that he’d have to see a hundred dollars first. And I didn’t know what to do, Cecily, so I hurried out of there and it’s lucky I wasn’t murdered or didn’t have my gold purse stolen.”
“What happened then?”
“I’ve been worrying till I was almost dead. Walter knew I wasn’t myself—my skin was all dead looking! Look at me, Cecily. I’m a perfect fright! So to-night he found me crying and he asked me what the matter was, and I told him, and he was glad, he said. Glad! Glad that I was going to die!”
“Nonsense, Della. Why shouldn’t he be glad?”
“He said he thought it would mature me and that we’d both be happier and that he’d try to make it easy—as if it could be easy! I’d die; I’m the type that always dies, leaving a baby, and the man marries again. And I told Walter he’d marry again; no, I told him I wouldn’t have it, I wouldn’t, and I won’t!”
“But there’s nothing to do about it.”
“There must be things. There must be. Walter said that same thing—nothing to do. But I’ll kill myself! I’ll show you all! I’ll show him!”