Nance was genuinely glad to see her and especially gratified
by the impression her white coat-suit and black picture hat made on the
finishing room.
"It must be grand to be on the stage," said Gert enviously.
"Well, it's living," said Birdie, airily. "That's more than you can
claim for this rotten grind."
She put a high-heeled, white-shod foot on the window ledge to adjust its
bow, and every eye in the room followed the process.
"I bet I make more money in a week," she continued dramatically, "than
you all make in a month. And look at your hands! Why, they couldn't pay
me enough to have my hands scarred up like that!"
"It ain't my hands that's worryin' me," said another girl. "It's my feet.
Say, the destruction on your shoes is somethin' fierce! You orter see
this here room some nights at closin' time; it's that thick with glass
you don't know where to step."
"I'd know," said Birdie. "I'd step down and out, and don't you
forget it."
Nance had been following the conversation in troubled silence.
"I don't mind the work so awful much," she said restlessly. "What gets me
is never having any fun. I haven't danced a step since I left Forest
Home, Birdie."
"You'd get your fill of it if you was with me," Birdie said importantly.
"Seven nights a week and two matinees."
"'Twouldn't be any too much for me," said Nance. "I could dance in
my sleep."
Birdie was sitting in the window now, ostensibly examining her full red
lips in a pocket-mirror, but in reality watching the factory yard below.
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