"Tell me what happened to you."
"Nothing. He gave me the money, that was all."
"Then we've got seven dollars—seven dollars and twenty cents, with what we brought away from home with us."
"Seven dollars—and twenty cents," repeated Susan thoughtfully.
Then a queer smile played around the corners of her mouth.
"Seven dollars—that's a week's wages for both of us at Matson's."
"But I'd go back to honest work tomorrow—if I could find a good job," Etta said eagerly—too eagerly. "Wouldn't you, Lorna?"
"I don't know," replied Susan. She had the inability to make pretenses, either to others or to herself, which characterizes stupid people and also the large, simple natures.
"Oh, you can't mean that!" protested Etta. Instead of replying Susan began to talk of what to do next. "We must find a place to sleep, and we must buy a few things to make a better appearance."
"I don't dare spend anything yet," said Etta. "I've got only my two dollars. Not that when this meal's paid for."
"We're going to share even," said Susan. "As long as either has anything, it belongs to both."
The tears welled from Etta's eyes. "You are too good, Lorna! You mustn't be. It isn't the way to get on. Anyhow, I can't accept anything from you. You wouldn't take anything from me."