Hubert sat at the window and meditated on the malignancy of fate. As though things hadn't been bad enough he had had to catch a cold. In August, no less, with the sun hotter than hell and not a breeze stirring, he had caught a cold. His doleful sigh ended in a sneeze. Damn the luck. And colds were no joke either. God, how sick they made a fellow feel. He probably wouldn't be able to go out tomorrow, and he really ought to go out. He had to dig up some money somewhere. There was only two or three dollars left from Lillian's ring. They had been fools to go to the movies and eat thick lamb chops. They ought to have conserved a little. Funny how he couldn't get used to being poor. Some people were born to have money to throw about and he was one of them. Now, with a cold like this he ought to be in bed. Not in that bed inside. Oh, the bed wasn't so bad, but the room. He ought to be in a large, airy room, just resting. Every once in a while somebody could bring him some tea and toast. Even a poached egg or a very tender bit of steak. It was nice to lie on a soft bed between cool, crisp sheets. Especially if you were sick. Hubert sneezed again.
Lillian, lying on the couch, eyed him with ever-increasing dismay. That was a bad cold he had. Poor Hubert. She had heard that summer colds were very hard to cure and more dangerous than those contracted
