"And you live in an apartment, too, don't you, Lil?" asked Marjorie, her gaze resting upon her companion. "Do you know, I've never been in an apartment!"
"It's an apartment-hotel," corrected Lily. "We don't even get our own meals!"
Half an hour later, the girls were sitting in Lily's dainty boudoir, sipping chocolate and enjoying a glorious hour of pure idleness.
"Are we doing anything to-night, Lil?" asked Marjorie, leaning back contentedly against the cushions on the window seat. "Not that I think we need to——" she hastened to add, lest her hostess might attribute her remark to impoliteness.
"Yes, we're going to the theater," replied Lily, laughingly. "It's a musical comedy. I hope you will like it."
"I'm sure I will. Do you know, Lil, I've never been in a real theater in my life!" She paused a moment, and then blurted out, unexpectedly, "Suppose Frieda should be a chorus girl! Do you think we'd recognize her, with all her paint and powder, if she were?"
Lily smiled at the other's simplicity. Evidently Marjorie had no conception of the great number of theaters in New York, or of the difficulty, for a novice, in obtaining a part in a show. And the idea of Frieda Hammer—rude, awkward, and uncouth—on the stage, was absolutely grotesque.
"I hardly think she'd be able to get the job, Marj," she replied, succeeding in hiding her amusement. But in order to forestall any more such remarks, she decided to change the subject.
"We're going to the game to-morrow," she announced, "with papa and mama, and——"
But Marjorie was only politely enthusiastic.