"No," said Susan.
"Dan Cassatt and Kate told me about those places," Etta went on. "Kate says they're fine and the girls make fifty and sometimes a hundred dollars a week, and have everything—servants to wait on them, good food, bathrooms, lovely clothes, and can drive out. But I—I think I'd stay in the house."
"I want to be my own boss," said Susan.
"There's another side than what Kate says," continued Etta as consecutively as her chattering teeth would permit. "She heard from a madam that wants her to come. But Dan heard from Minnie—she used to be in one—and she says the girls are slaves, that they're treated like dogs and have to take anything. She says it's something dreadful the way men act—even the gentlemen. She says the madam fixes things so that every girl always owes her money and don't own a stitch to her back, and so couldn't leave if she wanted to."
"That sounds more like the truth," said Susan.
"But we may have to go," pleaded Etta. "It's awful cold—and if we went, at least we'd have a warm place. If we wanted to leave, why, we couldn't be any worse off for clothes than we are."
Susan had no answer for this argument. They went several squares up Vine Street in silence. Then Etta burst out again:
"I'm frozen through and through, Lorna, and I'm dead tired—and hungry. The wind's cutting the flesh off my bones. What in the hell does it matter what becomes of us? Let's get warm, for God's sake. Let's go to a house. They're in Longworth Street—the best ones."
And she came to a halt, forcing Susan to halt also. It happened to be the corner of Eighth Street. Susan saw the iron fence, the leafless trees of Garfield Place. "Let's go down this way," said she. "I had luck here once."
"Luck!" said Etta, her curiosity triumphant over all.