"There's nothing to tell," said Laura wearily. "I haven't been able to find work, that is all, and I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know, and have cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working."
"Yes, you can," retorted her visitor. "I haven't worked in a year."
"But you don't understand, dear. I—I—well, you know, I—well, you know—I can't say what I want."
"Oh, yes, you can. You can say anything to me—everybody else does. We've been pals. I know you got along a little faster in the business than I did. The chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. But we got our living just the same way. I didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that."
"I know there wasn't then, Elfie; but I tell you I'm different now. I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very unlucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply haven't been able to get an engagement."
"Well, you can't get on this way," said Elfie. She paused a moment, knocking the ashes off her cigarette to cover her hesitation, and then went on: "Won't Brockton help you out?"
Laura rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. With some display of impatience, she exclaimed:
"What's the use of talking to you, Elfie? You don't understand."
Her legs crossed in masculine style, and puffing the cigarette deliberately, Elfie looked at her friend quizzingly:
"No?" she said mockingly. "Why don't I understand?"