"Yes, I suppose it was all worse for you than for me. You used to be a lady."
"Don't talk nonsense," said Susan.
"I don't regret what I'm doing," Etta now declared. "It was Gus that made me think about it." She looked somewhat sheepish as she went on to explain. "I had a little too much to drink last night. And when Gus and I were alone, I cried—for no reason except the drink. He asked me why and I had to say something, and it popped into my head to say I was ashamed of the life I was leading. As things turned out, I'm glad I said it. He was awfully impressed."
"Of course," said Susan.
"You never saw anything like it," continued Etta with an expression suggesting a feeling that she ought to be ashamed but could not help being amused. "He acted differently right away. Why don't you try it on John?"
"What for?"
"Oh, it'll make him—make him have more—more respect for you."
"Perhaps," said Susan indifferently.
"Don't you want John to—to respect you?"
"I've been too busy having a good time to think much about him—or about anything. I'm tired of thinking. I want to rest. Last night was the first time in my life I danced as much as I wanted to."
"Don't you like John?"