“Ah, that Saturday night!”
“Yes, it’s bad enough now; but at Christmas! There was a week or more of Saturday night—going on to one o’clock in the morning. A girl by me was twice carried out fainting, one night after another. They gave her brandy, and she came back again.”
“They compelled her to?”
“Well, no, it was her own wish. Her “book of takings” wasn’t very good, poor thing, and if it didn’t come up to a certain figure at the end of the week she would lose her place. She lost it after all. They told her she was too weak. After Christmas she was lucky enough to get a place as a lady’s-maid at twenty-five pounds a year—at Scotcher’s she had fifteen. But we heard that she burst a blood-vessel, and now she’s in the hospital at Brompton.”
“Delightful story! Haven’t you an early-closing day?”
“They had before I went there; but only for about three months. Then the agreement broke down.”
“Like the assistants. A pity the establishment doesn’t follow suit.”
“But you wouldn’t say so, Miss Nunn, if you knew how terribly hard it is for many girls to find a place, even now.”
“I know it perfectly well. And I wish it were harder. I wish girls fell down and died of hunger in the streets, instead of creeping to their garrets and the hospitals. I should like to see their dead bodies collected together in some open place for the crowd to stare at.”
Monica gazed at her with wide eyes.