"Gert!" she cried, "what's the matter? Are you hurt?"
The monk gave a significant wink at Mac, who had joined them, and the
by-standers laughed.
"She's drunk!" said Mac, abruptly, pulling Nance away. "Where did you
ever know that woman?"
"Why, it's Gert, you know, at the factory! She worked at the bench
next to mine!"
Her eyes followed the departing group somberly, and she lingered despite
Mac's persuasion.
Poor Gert! Was this what she meant by a good time? To be limp and silly
like that, with her dress slipping off her shoulder and people staring at
her and laughing at her?
"I don't want to dance!" she said impatiently, shaking off Mac's hand.
The steaming hall, reeking with tobacco smoke and stale beer, the men and
women with painted faces and blackened eyes leering and languishing at
each other, the snatches of suggestive song and jest, filled her with
sudden disgust.
"I'm going home," she announced with determination.
"But, Nance!" pleaded Mac, "you can't go until we've had our dance."
But for Nance the spell was broken, and her one idea was to get away.
When she found Birdie she became more insistent than ever.
"Why not see it out?" urged Mac. "I don't want to go home."
"You are as hoarse as a frog now," said Monte.
"Glad of it! Let's me out of singing in the choir to-morrow--I mean
to-day! Who wants another drink?"
Birdie did, and another ten minutes was lost while they went around to
the refreshment room.
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