"I'd like to fix that country pippin up."
"She'll fix herself up," was the short reply from her nearest neighbor. "Give her time!"
In the office Ellen's name and age and address were recorded by a young woman who spoke to her through a brass grill. Had she had experience in clerking? No. Training in business college? No. How much education—High School? Ellen thought she had had at least an equivalent. The clerk blotted her book with an air of finality.
"Have you a place for me?"
"Not now, of course. We take on extras when the holiday trade begins. We'll let you hear from us."
In a few other establishments Ellen's name and history were recorded, but in most places she was answered merely by a shake of the head. Every one, she realized, looked at her last summer's gingham.
Finally in a little jewelry store near the entrance to the subway through which the street descended under the railroad, she was successful. The articles in the crowded window looked very valuable, though they were paste and plated ware. The customers were chiefly men, passengers from the trains who stopped to have their watches regulated and to spend a few minutes of spare time. The proprietor listened to Ellen with interest and engaged her promptly, promising her six dollars a week and an advance if she did well. He looked at her even more sharply than he listened to her, and when she had gone he nodded his satisfaction.
Mrs. Lebber did not view this engagement with approval.
"Is he a married man, this Mr. Goldstein?"