"Live at home?" Miss Myrtle's grasshopper mind never dwelt long on one subject.
"Well, sure," replied Ray. "Did you think I had a flat up on the Drive?"
"I live at home too," Miss Myrtle announced impressively. She was leaning indolently against the table. Her eyes followed the deft, quick movements of Ray's slender, capable hands. Miss Myrtle always leaned when there was anything to lean on. Involuntarily she fell into melting poses. One shoulder always drooped slightly, one toe always trailed a bit like the picture on the cover of the fashion magazines, one hand and arm always followed the line of her draperies while the other was raised to hip or breast or head.
Ray's busy hands paused a moment. She looked up at the picturesque Myrtle. "All the girls do, don't they?"
"Huh?" said Myrtle blankly.
"Live at home, I mean? The application blank says—"
"Say, you've got clever hands, ain't you?" put in Miss Myrtle irrelevantly. She looked ruefully at her own short, stubby, unintelligent hands, that so perfectly reflected her character in that marvellous way hands have. "Mine are stupid-looking. I'll bet you'll get on." She sagged to the other hip with a weary gracefulness. "I ain't got no brains," she complained.
"Where do they live then?" persisted Ray.
"Who? Oh, I live at home"—again virtuously—"but I've got some heart if I am dumb. My folks couldn't get along without what I bring home every week. A lot of the girls have flats. But that don't last. Now Jevne—"
"Yes?" said Ray eagerly. Her plump face with its intelligent eyes was all aglow.