GUSSIE, the finisher-girl to whom I had once made love with a view to marrying her for her money, worked in the vicinity of my factory and I met her from time to time on the Avenue. We kept up our familiar tone of former days. We would pause, exchange some banter, and go our several ways. She was over fifty now. She looked haggard and dried up and her hair was copiously shot with gray
One afternoon she told me she had changed her shop, naming her new employer
"Is it a good place to work in?" I inquired
"Oh, it's as good or as bad as any other place," she replied, with a gay smile
"Mine is good," I jested
"That's what they all say
"Come to work for me and see for yourself."
"Will I get good wages?"
"Yes."
"How much?"