"Shows what?"
"Oh, nothing. Come on. I must forget that, for I can't be happy again till I do. I understand now why the comfortable people can be happy. They keep from knowing or they make themselves forget."
"Why not?" said John. "What's the use in being miserable about things that can't be helped?"
"No use at all," replied the girl. She laughed. "I've forgotten."
The carriage was so filled with their bundles that they had some difficulty in making room for themselves—finally accomplished it by each girl sitting on her young man's lap. They drove to a quietly placed, scrupulously clean little hotel overlooking Lincoln Park. "We're going to take rooms here and dress," explained Fatty. "Then we'll wander out and have some supper."
By this time Susan and Etta had lost all sense of strangeness. The spirit of adventure was rampant in them as in a dreaming child. And the life they had been living—what they had seen and heard and grown accustomed to—made it easy for them to strike out at once and briskly in the new road, so different from the dreary and cruel path along which they had been plodding. They stood laughing and joking in the parlor while the boys registered; then the four went up to two small but comfortable and fascinatingly clean rooms with a large bathroom between. "Fatty and I will go down to the bar while you two dress," said John.
"Not on your life!" exclaimed Fatty. "We'll have the bar brought up to us."
But John, fortified by Susan's look of gratitude for his tactfulness, whispered to his friend—what Susan could easily guess. And Fatty said, "Oh, I never thought of it. Yes, we'll give 'em a chance. Don't be long, girls."
"Thank you," said Susan to John.
"That's all right. Take your time."