She detested being
kept waiting, and that morning she had many errands to attend to
before the luncheon hour.
"May I use your telephone?" she asked Mr. Clymer's secretary, and
the young man rose with alacrity from his desk. Mrs. Brewster never
knew what it was to lack attention, even her own sex were known on
occasions to give her gowns and, (what captious critics termed her
"frivolous conduct") undivided attention.
"Can I look up the number for you?" the secretary asked as Mrs.
Brewster took up the telephone book and fumbled for the gold chain
of her lorgnette.
"Oh, thank you," her smile showed each pretty dimple. "I wish to
speak to Mr. Kent, of the firm of Rochester and Kent."
"Harry Kent?" The young secretary dropped the book without looking
at it, and gave a number to the operator, and then handed the
instrument to Mrs. Brewster.
"Mr. Kent not in, did you say?" asked the widow. " Who is speaking?
Ah, Mr. Sylvester - has Mr. Rochester returned? - Both partners
away" . . . she paused . . . "I'll call later - Mrs.
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