But Jinky did not answer for a moment. She was looking at Geraldine, studying her, with all her hard won wisdom. A child, she thought her—a lovely child, with her heavy hair in a braid, and her outgrown bath robe; but a child already half awakened to reality.
“Look here!” she said briefly. “Do you want a chance to do a decent thing?”
“I—what is it?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Jinky. “If you want to help, you can get dressed and run down to the Shore Road and meet Sam Randall—”
“No!” cried Geraldine. “I won’t! I won’t have anything to do with—with that!”
“You needn’t think it’s a grand operatic tragedy,” said Jinky. “Serena and Sam aren’t exactly Tristan and Isolde. There’s nothing very wicked in their little flirtation; but Jesse Page just came home in a pretty poisonous temper, and if Sambo comes back to the house now there’ll be trouble.”
“I don’t care!”
“I suppose you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jinky. “I hope you don’t. If you understood that you could stop a nasty scandal, and perhaps something even worse, and you just wouldn’t do it, and didn’t care—” She paused. “It’s serious,” she went on. “Jesse means business. You can help these people if you want to. If you don’t want to, all right! It’s up to you.”
This was the first time Geraldine had had a problem presented to her in such a way. There was no question of right or wrong. Evidently Jinky thought it didn’t matter whether these people deserved to be helped or not. She simply offered the other girl a chance to do a decent thing.
Geraldine looked at Jinky, and found Jinky looking at her; and Savonarola never preached a more eloquent sermon than Jinky did by her silence. She stood there, smoking her cigarette, a haggard, reckless, wasted young creature, just waiting to see if the other girl was willing to help. It was up to Geraldine.