Susan strove to hide the feelings aroused by this practical statement of what lay before her. Those feelings filled her with misgiving. Was the lesson still unlearned? Obviously Ida was right; there must be plan, calculation, a definite line laid out and held to, or there could not but be failure and disaster. And yet—Susan's flesh quivered and shrank away. She struggled against it, but she could not conquer it. Experience had apparently been in vain; her character had remained unchanged. . . . She must compel herself. She must do what she had to do; she must not ruin everything by imitating the people of the tenements with their fatal habit of living from day to day only, and taking no thought for the morrow except fatuously to hope and dream that all would be well.
While she was fighting with herself, Ida had been talking on—the same subject. When Susan heard again, Ida was saying:
"Now, take me, for instance. I don't smoke or drink. There's nothing in either one—especially drink. Of course sometimes a girl's got to drink. A man watches her too close for her to dodge out. But usually you can make him think you're as full as he is, when you really are cold sober."
"Do the men always drink when they—come with—with—us?" asked Susan.
"Most always. They come because they want to turn themselves loose. That's why a girl's got to be careful not to make a man feel nervous or shy. A respectable woman's game is to be modest and innocent. With us, the opposite. They're both games; one's just as good as the other."
"I don't think I could get along at all—at this," confessed Susan with an effort, "unless I drank too much—so that I was reckless and didn't care what happened."
Ida looked directly into her eyes; Susan's glance fell and a flush mounted. After a pause Ida went on:
"A girl does feel that way at first. A girl that marries as most of them do—because the old ones are pushing her out of the nest and she's got no place else to go—she feels the same way till she hardens to it. Of course, you've got to get broke into any business."
"Go on," said Susan eagerly. "You are so sensible. You must teach me."
"Common sense is a thing you don't often hear—especially about getting on in the world. But, as I was saying—one of my gentlemen friends is a lawyer—such a nice fellow—so liberal. Gives me a present of twenty or twenty-five extra, you understand—every time he makes a killing downtown. He asked me once how I felt when I started in; and when I told him, he said, 'That's exactly the way I felt the first time I won a case for a client I knew was a dirty rascal and in the wrong. But now—I take that sort of thing as easy as you do.' He says the thing is to get on, no matter how, and that one way's as good as another. And he's mighty right. You soon learn that in little old New York, where you've got to have the money or you get the laugh and the foot—the swift, hard kick. Clean up after you've arrived, he says—and don't try to keep clean while you're working—and don't stop for baths and things while you're at the job."