"Not yet," said Mildred. "And I don't think I ever shall. I don't know enough."
"Oh, yes, you do. A teacher doesn't need to know much. The wages are so poor—at least up in New England—that they don't expect you to know anything. It's all in the books. I left because I couldn't endure the life. Lord! how dull those little towns are! Ever live in a little town?"
"All my life," said Mildred.
"Well, you'll never go back."
"I hope not."
"You won't. Why should you? A sensible woman with looks—especially if she knows how to carry her clothes—can stay in New York as long as she pleases, and live off the fat of the land."
"That's good news," said Mildred. She began to like the landlady—not for what she said, but for the free and frank and friendly way of the saying—a human way, a comradely way, a live-and-let-live way.
"I didn't escape from New England without a struggle," continued Mrs. Belloc, who was plainly showing that she had taken a great fancy to "Mary Stevens."
"I suppose it was hard to save the money out of your salary," said Mildred.
Mrs. Belloc laughed. She was about thirty-five years old, though her eyes and her figure were younger than that. Her mouth was pleasant enough, but had lost some of its freshness. "Save money!" cried she. "I'd never have succeeded that way. I'd be there yet. I had never married—had two or three chances, but all from poor sticks looking for someone to support them. I saw myself getting old. I was looking years older than I do now. Talk about sea air for freshening a woman up—it isn't in it with the air of New York. Here's the town where women stay young. If I had come here five years ago I could almost try for the squab class."