This fact was not lost upon her sister worker, Miss Ethyl Mooney. "Say, Gertie"—Miss Mooney tied a perky little apron about her trim waist and patted a bow into place—"is there ever a mornin' that you ain't booked clear through the day?"
Miss Sprunt hung her flat sailor hat and blue jacket behind the door, placed her hands on her hips, glanced down the length of her svelte figure, yawned, and patted her mouth with her hand.
"Not so you could notice it," she replied, in gapey tones. "I'm booked from nine to quitting just six days of the week; and, believe me, it's not like taking the rest cure."
"I guess if I was a jollier like you, Gert, I'd have a waitin'-list, too, I wish I could get on to your system."
"Maybe I give tradin'-stamps," observed Miss Sprunt, flippantly.
"You give 'em some sort of laughing-gas; but me, I'm of a retiring disposition, and I never could force myself on nobody."
Miss Gertrude flecked at herself with a whisk-broom.
"Don't feel bad about it, Ethyl; just keep on trying."
Miss Ethyl flushed angrily.
"Smarty!" she said.