Hildegarde told her. “And what are you going for?”
“Money.”
“Not beach gold,” said the girl smiling.
“I’ve been sent for. I shall be bookkeeper to one of the large companies.”
“Oh-h.” Hildegarde’s big eyes were so obviously uncongratulatory that Mrs. Locke said firmly, “It’s work I’m used to.”
“But—up there, won’t it be very rough and difficult for—for any one like you—all alone?”
“They pay three times what I’ve been getting. I’m very lucky to have the offer, at least as I count luck now. I used to think—to have ambitions.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Hildegarde, betraying a flattering confidence in the other’s powers.
“I know my measure now. I’m a failure.” And still there was no weakness, no repining in her tone. Level and courageous, but without comfort, wholly without anticipation.
“What shall you do with the money you make?”