"Oh, yes," she said. "How are you?... Claribel? Yes; what about her?... What!"
"Yes," said the Nurse. "A girl—seven pounds."
"My Gawd! Well, what do you think of that! Excuse me a moment; my cigarette's set fire to the sheet. All right—go ahead."
"She's taking it pretty hard, and I—I thought you might help her. She—she——"
"How much do you want?" said Rose, a trifle coldly. She turned in the bed and eyed the black leather bag on the stand at her elbow. "Twenty enough?"
"I don't think it's money," said the Nurse, "although she needs that too; she hasn't any clothes for the baby. But—she's awfully despondent—almost desperate. Have you any idea who the child's father is?"
Rosie considered, lighting a new cigarette with one hand and balancing the telephone with the other.
"She left me a year ago," she said. "Oh, yes; I know now. What time is it?"
"Two o'clock."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Rosie. "I'll get the fellow on the wire and see what he's willing to do. Maybe he'll give her a dollar or two a week."