"I didn't know whether you knew we—I—I'm a chorus-girl," she stammered.
Mrs. Pardiston shut her book. She had been reading the story of the birth of Jesus. That lonely vigil of Mary and her outcast Son, the friendlessness and loneliness of it, had its special appeal on this the dawn of its anniversary. Her heart was touched. For some unknown reason also it went out to the girl so wistfully standing by her bed.
"Are you, dear?" she said tenderly. "Wrap yourself in the eider-down and tell me all about it."
Tell her all about it! Maggy was quite unprepared for the calm and friendly overture.
"Would you mind if I didn't?" she faltered. "It would take so long. I dance and sing for my living, that's all. There's nothing interesting about it. But I thought you ought to know, else you might have—"
Mrs. Pardiston smiled reassuringly.
"I should never think ill of a person because they worked for their living. It was nice of you to want to trust me."
"I did. You've been so kind.... But I'm interrupting you. You were reading."
"You can read to me, if you will." Mrs. Pardiston took off her spectacles and handed Maggy the book, indicating the place. "Are you quite warm? But perhaps you would rather go to bed?"
"I'll read a little first, please."