The girl seemed to apprehend something, appear less blank.
"Florence?" persisted Constance.
"Oh, yes," she cried, "that's it—that's my name."
But as for the last name and the address she was just as hazy as ever. Still, there was now something different about her.
"Florence—Florence what?" reiterated Constance patiently.
There was no answer. But with the continued repetition it seemed as if some depth in her nature had been stirred. Constance could not help feeling that the girl had really found herself.
She had risen and was facing Constance, both hands pressed to her throbbing temples as if to keep her head from bursting. Constance had assisted her off with her coat and hat, and now the sartorial wreck of her masses of blonde hair was apparent.
"I suppose," she cried incoherently, "I'm just one more of the thousands of girls who drop out of sight every year."
Constance listened in amazement. As the spell of her influence seemed to calm the overwrought mind of the girl there succeeded a hardness in her tone that was wholly out of keeping with her youth. There was something that breathed of a past where there should have been nothing but the thought of a future.
"Tell me why," soothed Constance with an air that invited confidence.