At Mr. Demry's closed door she paused; then hastily retracing her steps,
she slipped back to her own room and got a potted geranium, bearing one
dirty-faced blossom. This she placed on the floor outside his door and
then, picking up her big box, she slipped quickly out of the house,
through the alley and into the street.
It was late when she got back to Birdie's room, and as she entered, she
was startled by the sound of smothered sobbing.
"Birdie!" she cried in sudden alarm, peering into the semi-darkness,
"what's the matter? Are you fired?"
Birdie started up hastily from the bed where she had been lying face
downward, and dried her eyes.
"No," she said crossly. "Nothing's the matter, only I got the blues."
"The blues!" repeated Nance, incredulously. "What for?"
"Oh, everything. I wish I was dead."
"Birdie Smelts, what's happened to you?" demanded Nance in alarm, sitting
by her on the bed and trying to put her arm around her.
"Whoever said anything had happened?" asked the older girl, pushing
her away. "Stop asking fool questions and get dressed. We'll be late
as it is."
For some time they went about their preparations in silence; then Nance,
partly to relieve the tension, and partly because the matter was of vital
interest, asked:
"Do you reckon Mr. Mac and Mr. Monte will come again to-night?"
"You can't tell," said Birdie. "What do they care about engagements?
We are nothing but dirt to them--just dirt under their old
patent-leather pumps!"
This bitterness on Birdie's part was so different from her customary
superiority where men were concerned, that Nance gasped.
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