Minna, glad to find a sympathiser, even in this chance acquaintance, admitted that she was in distress; that she had become separated from her mother, and that she was indeed from the country.
“I've been trying to find a situation,” she hazarded in conclusion, “but I don't seem to succeed. I've never been in a city before, except Bonneville.”
“Well, it IS a coincidence,” said the other. “I know I wasn't drawn to you for nothing. I am looking for just such a young girl as you. You see, I live alone a good deal and I've been wanting to find a nice, bright, sociable girl who will be a sort of COMPANION to me. Understand? And there's something about you that I like. I took to you the moment I saw you on the boat. Now shall we talk this over?”
Towards the end of the week, one afternoon, as Presley was returning from his club, he came suddenly face to face with Minna upon a street corner.
“Ah,” he cried, coming toward her joyfully. “Upon my word, I had almost given you up. I've been looking everywhere for you. I was afraid you might not be getting along, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do. How are your mother and Hilda? Where are you stopping? Have you got a good place?”
“I don't know where mamma is,” answered Minna. “We got separated, and I never have been able to find her again.”
Meanwhile, Presley had been taking in with a quick eye the details of Minna's silk dress, with its garniture of lace, its edging of velvet, its silver belt-buckle. Her hair was arranged in a new way and on her head was a wide hat with a flare to one side, set off with a gilt buckle and a puff of bright blue plush. He glanced at her sharply.
“Well, but—but how are you getting on?” he demanded.
Minna laughed scornfully.
“I?” she cried. “Oh, I'VE gone to hell. It was either that or starvation.”