Dot turned and whispered to Eddie: "I guess you'll have to stay out here."
Dr. Simons was apparently a person who couldn't stand waiting. Mrs. Collins' delay was too much for him. He appeared on the threshold and gestured impatiently to both of them. They arose and followed him.
The inner office basked in a cool golden glow. The sun streamed unrebuked in all the four windows and busy little electric fans whirred gleefully and dared it to make a nuisance of itself. Everything was terribly modern-looking and terribly oiled, polished, and clean.
In the center of the room stood Dr. Simons, waiting with a peevish expression on his face for Dot to take a seat. He was a tall, dark Jew, still under forty. He was slender, sharp-eyed, and rather brilliant-looking. His fingers were long and slim and nervous. He was good-looking. The sort of Jew who, one expects, will speak with an Oxford accent and who will say blisteringly sarcastic things.
Dot took a seat. So did Dr. Simons. So did Eddie. Dr. Simons asked Dot if her name was Kenny. She said it wasn't, and Dr. Simons seemed greatly upset over the turn affairs had taken. He pulled out a file-drawer and began whispering "Collins" over and over to himself. Finally he slammed the drawer and shouted: "Miss Henderson."
The nurse appeared.
"Find this woman's card," he said. "It's with the batch Dr. Stewart brought over. Her name is Kenny."
Dot's mouth opened, but she could see by the smile on Miss Henderson's face that the doctor's mistake had been noticed.
Miss Henderson found the card. The doctor regarded it critically. "Oh, you're the woman who is to come to term in a few weeks, aren't you?"
