“Certainly. My husband and I have been frequent visitors, and I know there are plenty of bedrooms.”
“But, my dear Aunt, suppose you get sick?” Betty gazed at her in utter disapproval.
“I am sick already,” declared Mrs. Nash. “Chills and fever—where’s your thermometer, Doctor?”
Roberts looked grave as he prepared the small instrument for her.
“Your niece is right,” he said. “This country place is isolated from Washington in winter, and with illness—” he paused to put the thermometer in Mrs. Nash’s mouth; then he addressed Betty. “I think you also had better change your plan, and return to Washington.”
“I am the best judge of what I should do,” she huffed and turned away. Roberts eyed her in speculative silence as he took out his fountain pen and wrote a prescription.
Alan, who had been watching Betty also, turned to Miriam. “Where can the coroner reach you?” he asked. “You have not given me your address? Or let me have your bill?” he added, lowering his voice to a confidential pitch.
Miriam colored warmly; the commercial side of her profession always embarrassed her. “I was engaged for an eighteen-hour duty,” she stammered. “I suppose the charge is seven dollars.”
Alan drew out his wallet and pressed some bills into her hand. “And your address?” he asked eagerly.
“You can always reach me through Central Registry,” and with a nod of gratitude she passed him to go to the telephone.