“What?” you cry. She laughs.
“Just the girls, silly.” You are somewhat confused and she feels abashed at having called you silly. It sounds too intimate, somehow. Move your feet uneasily and knit your brows in an effort to say tactfully just what you think.
“I don’t like it. You need your rest. It’s all right for a while but pretty soon it’ll react on you. I don’t understand you girls. You don’t use one of these studios for anything, you’re at the office all day anyway. You don’t even save so much money.” She laughs and then looks at you inquisitively.
“Really, you’re taking it awfully hard. What’s the matter? What’s worrying you?”
“I don’t know.... I just don’t like it all.”
“I know,” she says, teasingly. “You didn’t like the dinner. I know you didn’t. Confess you didn’t!”
“I’m not worrying about the dinner,” you say hastily. “I don’t care much about what I eat; it was only that the place didn’t look clean. You never eat their stew or anything like that, do you?”
She answers sarcastically, “It’s terribly nice of you to worry so much about me....” and you flush.
“Now, don’t talk like that. Please don’t.”
“No, honestly, I mean it. I wrote Mother that she certainly wouldn’t worry so much about me if she could hear how you’re always lecturing me. I’m so afraid you’ll walk into the office some day when it’s raining and bellow, ‘Miss Merrill, where are your rubbers?’”