“Why! She acts as if she were dead,” said Joy.
“Dead!” exclaimed Jerry with a short laugh. “Dead or—Sal Saunders! I’d like to wring your neck—maybe that would bring a squawk!”
There was a faint stir. “That you, Jerry?”
“Yes, it’s me, and you’ve got to get off the downy. Do you expect me to ring for the cracked ice, or what?”
Sarah rose to a sitting posture and started to flop back, but Jerry’s arm shot forward and propped her up.
“Where do you think you are,” Jerry continued; “in New York? We’ve got to get down in ten minutes! Go and stick your head under the shower.” She pushed her out of the door. Returning, her gleaming eye lit on Joy. “It’s enough to make me weep, to see you. Why, you look just as well as you did last night.”
Joy pulled on her stockings without replying, as appropriate repartee did not occur to her at the moment.
“You know,” Jerry continued, running a comb through her hair, “you’re one of the best looking girls I’ve seen for I’d hate to say how many years—but the trouble is, you don’t put yourself together with any enthusiasm—you don’t drape yourself accordingly. Looks don’t count nowadays unless you’ve got push, too.”
“Just what do you mean?” Joy was almost completely at a loss.
“Use ’em! Use your face, eyes—your hair—your figure—you’ve got good clothes, too—you just need a little push, that’s all!”