When the hard rolls and strong tea which composed their lunch had been
disposed of, Nance curled herself luxuriously on the foot of the bed and
munched chocolate creams, while Birdie, in a soiled pink kimono that
displayed her round white arms and shapely throat, lay stretched beside
her. They found a great deal to talk about, and still more to laugh
about. Nance loved to laugh; all she wanted was an excuse, and everything
was an excuse to-day; Birdie's tales of stage-door Johnnies, the recent
ire of old Spagetti, her own imitation of Miss Bobinet and the ossified
Susan. Nance loved the cozy intimacy of the little room; even the heavy
odor of perfumes and cosmetics was strange and fascinating; she thought
Birdie was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. A thrilling vista of
days like this, spent with her in strange and wonderful cities, opened
before her.
"I'll rig you up in some of my clothes, until you get your first pay,"
Birdie offered, "then we can fit you out right and proper. You got the
making of an awful pretty girl in you."
Nance shrieked her derision. Her own charms, compared with Birdie's
generous ones, seemed absurdly meager, as she watched the older girl blow
rings from the cigarette which she held daintily between her first and
second finger.
Nance had been initiated into smoking and chewing tobacco before she was
ten, but neither appealed to her. Watching Birdie smoke, she had a sudden
desire to try it again.
"Give us a puff, Birdie," she said.
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