Carmella Commands
“Business!” the office clerk exclaimed, in surprise.
“Yes, business. My father is Tommaso Coletta, the big contractor. Mr. Dixon is going to be his American partner.”
“Then why doesn’t your father come?”
“Because he can’t talk English and Mr. Dixon can’t talk wop. I’m their official interpreter. And it’s very important.”
Her insistence led the office clerk to telephone the ward nurse, and then to the assistant superintendent. He turned back to Carmella:
“You may see him, in the corridor, for ten minutes. You can’t go into the ward at this time of day.”
The nurse met her as she emerged from the elevator, and directed her to the far end of the corridor, along which a bathrobed figure was slowly walking.
“Well, hello, kid!” Dixon exclaimed, as she caught up with him. “I wondered who was coming, and sort of hoped it was you.”
“How do you do?” asked Carmella, suddenly diffident. “I mean, are you getting well? I mean I’m glad to see you.”
“Feeling finer every day,” said Dixon, chuckling at the jumble of Carmella’s greeting, “Just a case of neuritis, the doc said, from driving all day and not getting enough husky exercise. Be all right soon.”
“Then are you going back to the Barringtons?”
Carmella watched his face intently, and saw it harden.
[241]
