He glanced at her again, having noticed already that she scarcely glanced at him. Her profile was toward him as at first, an irregular little profile of lifts and tilts, which might be appealing, but was not beautiful. 34 The boast of being in pictures, so incongruous with her woefully dilapidated air, did not amuse him. He knew how large a place a nominal connection with the stage took in the lives of certain ladies. Even this poor little tramp didn’t hesitate to make the claim.
“And you’re doing well?”
She wouldn’t show the white feather. “Oh, so so! I—I get along.”
“You live by yourself?”
“I—I do now.”
“Don’t you find it lonely?”
“Not so lonely as livin’ with Judson Flack.”
“You’re—you’re happy?”
A faint implication that she might look to him for help stirred her fierce independence. “Gee, yes! I’m—I’m doin’ swell.”
“But you wouldn’t mind a change, I suppose?”