The switchboard girl, with greatly diminished animation, for this was much later in the day and nobody could expect it, said, “Brown and Bixby, good afternoon.” “Mr. Carter, please.” “Did you wish to speak to Mr. Nich-o-las Carter or Mr. Charles Carter?” “Hold the wire, please, I’ll make sure. Mr. Charles Carter, C. Carter.” “Extension 241.” She turned to her twin. “Another outside call for The Great Lover, Betty. Evans isn’t going to like this one bit. Brown and Bixby, good afternoon.” “Yes,” Charles said. “This is he. Speaking.” “This is Dr. Gresham, Mr. Carter, Bellevue Psychiatric. I’m sorry to trouble you, sir.” “That’s all right.” Charles cleared his throat. “No trouble.” “It’s in connection with one of our patients here, Smith, Edna Smith, a colored girl who claims she was in your employ for about two years. Did you employ her, Mr. Carter?” “I don’t employ maids, Doctor; that’s woman’s work, isn’t it?” Charles attempted to laugh masculinely, easily, heartily.
