“What kind of work can you do?”
Cynthia hesitated. She put her head on one side. Her eyes grew dark and unfathomable again.
“I ought to get a job at housework, oughtn’t I?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Beth, thoughtfully. “Wherever you apply for work you will have a better chance of obtaining it if you look—look a little more like other girls, don’t you think?”
“What?” questioned Cynthia, evidently puzzled.
“Why—your dress, I mean. Perhaps we can help you make your appearance nicer.”
“You mean my clothes are ugly?” asked Cynthia, bluntly.
“And not altogether clean,” added Beth, quietly.
“Well, housemaids don’t have to dress very fancy, do they?” demanded the refugee. “I got these things I am wearing from a girl who worked as a maid and waitress, and I paid—— Well! I paid enough for them.”
“Of course,” mused Beth, “you couldn’t risk going out on the street in your uniform.”