"I'll be sorry to lose you," said Mrs. Brindley, "but I agree with you that you can't get settled any too soon."
"You don't happen to know of any cheap, good place?" said Mildred.
"If it's cheap, I don't think it's likely to be good—in New York," replied Cyrilla. "You'll have to put up with inconveniences—and worse. I'd offer to help you find a place, but I think everything self-reliant one does helps one to learn. Don't you?"
"Yes, indeed," assented Mildred. The thing was self-evidently true; still she began to hate Cyrilla. This cold-hearted New York! How she would grind down her heel when she got it on the neck of New York! Friendship, love, helpfulness—what did New York and New-Yorkers know of these things? "Or Hanging Rock, either," reflected she. What a cold and lonely world!
"Have you been to see about a position?" inquired Cyrilla.
Mildred was thrown into confusion. "I can't go—for a—day or so," she stammered. "The changeable weather has rather upset my throat. Nothing serious, but I want to be at my best."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Brindley. Her direct gaze made Mildred uncomfortable. She went on: "You're sure it's the weather?"
"What else could it be?" demanded Mildred with a latent resentment whose interesting origin she did not pause to inquire into.
"Well, salad, or sauces, or desserts, or cafe au lait in the morning, or candy, or tea," said Cyrilla. "Or it might be cigarettes, or all those things—and thin stockings and low shoes—mightn't it?"
Never before had she known Cyrilla to say anything meddlesome or cattish. Said Mildred with a faint sneer, "That sounds like Mr. Keith's crankiness."