Miss Hickey regarded her companion sharply.
“You ain’t a heaver all the year,” she remarked tentatively, “or else you wouldn’t be afraid o’ those rich folks. There’s the tips, you know.”
Rosalie was silent.
“Perhaps you was their waitress and ran off to see the world without giving notice.”
“No, I wasn’t that; but I—I know them, and—”
The speech drifted into silence.
“You know rich folks, do you? Lucky you.”
“Not exactly. They—she—” stammered Rosalie, “they helped—educate me.”
“Oh, you’re educated, are you?” retorted Miss Hickey, giving her coiffure a satisfied lift. “Well, so am I. I’m a typewriter in Chicago, winters.”
“Does—does it pay well?” asked Rosalie, with such serious wistfulness that Miss Hickey forgave her her rich acquaintances.