"But it'll take me half an hour or so to fix her up," says she. "She's
dreadful fussy about her looks."

"I got all day," says I.

But at that it seemed like I'd been shut up in that sobby parlor for a
month when Tessie finally gives me the word. "Come along," says she.
"And don't forget to make a noise like a banker."

Say, after I'd been led up to this faded old relic that's bolstered
with pillows in the armchair by the window, and listened to her wavery,
cracked voice, I couldn't see anything funny in it at all.

It's a vague, batty sort of talk we had. Mostly it's a monologue by
her.

"I am quite annoyed," says she, tappin' the chair arm with her thin,
blue-white finger-nails. "My income, you know. It must not be reduced
in this way. You must attend to it at once. Those Inter-Lake
securities. I've depended on those. Mr. Bagstock gave them to me on
our fifth wedding anniversary. Of course, I am not a business woman.
One can't neglect one's social career. But I have always tried to look
after my own securities. My father taught me to do that when I was a
mere girl. So I wrote about my Inter-Lake Navigation shares. Why
should your firm interfere? You say in a few months they will pay as
well. But meanwhile? You see, there are my Wednesdays. I can't give
them up. What would people say? For years that has been my day. No,
no, young man, you must find a way. Tell your firm that I simply must
keep up my Wednesdays."