Two evenings after Elmer's mother had almost alienated him, he settled down in his study at home to prepare three or four sermons, with a hope of being in bed by eleven. He was furious when the Lithuanian maid came in and said, "Somebody on the 'phone, Doctor," but when he heard Hettie the ragged edges went out of his voice.
"Elmer? Hettie calling."
"Yes, yes, this is Dr. Gantry."
"Oh, you are so sweet and funny and dignified! Is the Lettish pot-walloper listening?"
"Yes!"
"Listen, dear. Will you do something for me?"
"You bet!"
"I'm so terribly lonely this evening. Is oo working hard?"
"I've got to get up some sermons."
"Listen! Bring your little Bible dictionary along and come and work at my place, and let me smoke a cigarette and look at you. Wouldn't you like to . . . dear . . . dearest?"
"You bet. Be right along."
He explained to Cleo and his mother that he had to go and comfort an old lady in extremis, he accepted their congratulations on his martyrdom, and hastened out.
Elmer was sitting beside Hettie on the damask couch, under the standard lamp, stroking her hand and explaining how unjust his mother was, when the door of her suite opened gravely and a thin, twitching-faced, gimlet-eyed man walked in.
Hettie sprang up, stood with a hand on her frightened breast.
"What d'you want here?" roared Elmer, as he rose also.
"Hush!" Hettie begged him. "It's my husband!"
