Dot lay on the sofa with a blanket drawn up to her ears. Funny how chilly and sick a woman could feel, once she knew she had a good excuse. Eddie sat over near the window turning the pages of a radio magazine with no great eagerness. There was an air of determined depression about the apartment and its two occupants.
Once Eddie spoke. "Want me to get you something?"
Dot shook her head. What could he get her? She didn't want anything. She was too miserable. Downstairs a Victrola began to play "Burning Sands" by the Whiteman Orchestra. People were probably feeling in good spirits down there. The woman who kept the apartment probably hadn't been to see Dr. Griegman. Dot cast a glance at Eddie. Suppose she told him. She smiled a little. What good would it do her to have Dr. Griegman's nose broken? Eddie hadn't cared about her having to undress. He seemed to know that she would have to, but if she had told him the rest— Well, she couldn't, because he certainly would make an attempt to clean up the dirty office, using the doctor for a mop. Then he would be arrested. Men made things so difficult. Because he would do this and be arrested, Dot couldn't tell him of the doctor's unpleasant habits; consequently she couldn't give him a good reason for not wanting to go to Griegman again.
At first she had hoped to gain time by mentioning the price of the operation. Eddie had looked worried but not baffled. He said he felt sure his boss would advance him fifty dollars and that he could repay him five dollars a week.
Dot closed her eyes wearily. One had one's choice be-
