Motoring? With a
hand that trembled in spite of itself, Alma telephoned the garage. Car
and chauffeur were there. Incredible as it seemed, Alma, upon more than
one occasion had lately been obliged to remind her mother that she was
becoming careless of the old pointedly rosy hand. Manicurist? She
telephoned the Bon Ton Beauty Parlor. No! Where, oh God, where? Which
way to begin? That was what troubled her most. To start right, so as not
to lose a precious second.
Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Alma began a hurried search
through her mother's dresser-drawers of lovely personal appointments.
A one-inch square of newspaper clipping apparently gouged from the sheet
with a hairpin, caught her eye from the top of one of the gold-backed
hair-brushes. Dawningly, Alma read.
It described in brief detail the innovation of a newly equipped Narcotic
Clinic on the Bowery below Canal Street, provided to medically
administer to the pathological cravings of addicts.
Fifteen minutes later Alma emerged from the subway at Canal Street and
with three blocks toward her destination ahead, started to run.
At the end of the first block she saw her mother, in the sable coat and
the black-lace hat, coming toward her.
Her first impulse was to run faster and yoo-hoo, but she thought better
of it and by biting her lips and digging her fingernails, was able to
slow down to a casual walk.
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