"Is that much?" asked Luella, frowning. "It's just three-fifths of a degree. That isn't so much for the afternoon. They often run up a little with a cold." Luella went over to the cot and laid her hand on her son's flushed cheek, thinking, in the midst of her anxiety, how much he resembled the incredible cherub of the "Lux" advertisement in the bus. She turned to the nurse. "Do you know how to cook?" "Why--I'm not a good cook." "Well, can you do the baby's food to-night? That old fool has left, and I can't get anyone, and I don't know what to do." "Oh, yes, I can do the baby's food." "That's all right, then. I'll try to fix something for Mr. Hemple. Please have your door open so you can hear the bell when the doctor comes. And let me know." So many doctors! There had scarcely been an hour all day when there wasn't a doctor in the house. The specialist and their family physician every morning, then the baby doctor--and this afternoon there had been Doctor Moon, placid, persistent, unwelcome, in the parlor. Luella went into the kitchen. She could cook bacon and eggs for herself--she had often done that after the theatre. But the vegetables for Charles were a different matter--they must be left to boil or stew or something, and the stove had so many doors and ovens that she couldn't decide which to use. She chose a blue pan that looked new, sliced carrots into it, and covered them with a little water. As she put it on the stove and tried to remember what to do next, the phone rang. It was the agency. "Yes, this is Mrs. Hemple speaking." "Why, the woman we sent to you has returned here with the claim that you refused to pay her for her time." "I explained to you that she refused to stay," said Luella hotly. "She didn't keep her agreement, and I didn't feel I was under any obligation----" "We have to see that our people are paid," the agency informed her; "otherwise we wouldn't be helping them at all, would we? I'm sorry, Mrs. Hemple, but we won't be able to furnish you with any one else until this little matter is arranged." "Oh, I'll pay, I'll pay!" she cried. "Of course we like to keep on good terms with our clients----" "Yes--yes!" "So if you'll send her money around to-morrow? It's seventy-five cents an hour." "But how about to-night?" she exclaimed. "I've got to have some one to-night." "Why--it's pretty late now. I was just going home myself." "But I'm Mrs. Charles Hemple! Don't you understand? I'm perfectly good for what I say I'll do. I'm the wife of Charles Hemple, of 14 Broadway----" Simultaneously she realized that Charles Hemple of 14 Broadway was a helpless invalid--he was neither a reference nor a refuge any more. In despair at the sudden callousness of the world, she hung up the receiver.