"Sick? Forget it! I never was better in my life."
"Then why are you off your work—why do you act as if you didn't care?"
"Can't I have a part I hate? Can't I get weary of this old joint with its smoke and its beer? God!" She began to pull the pins out of her hair and fling them on the dresser. "I'm human—I've got my ups and downs—and you keep forgetting it."
"That's just what I'm not forgetting."
"Stop talking about me—I'm sick of it," she cried, and snatching up the comb began tearing it through her hair.
"It's nerves," said Crowder. "Everything shows it. The way you're combing your hair does."
"If you don't let me alone I'll put you out—all of you nagging and picking at me; a saint couldn't stand it!" Crowder rose, but she whirled round on him, the comb held out in an arresting hand. "No, don't go yet. I'll give you another chance. I want to ask you something. I saw a woman the other day and I want to know who she is—at least I don't really want to know, but she'll do as well as anything else to change the subject. Tall with yellow sort of dolly hair and a dolly face. Dark purple dress with black velvet edges, lynx furs and a curly brimmed hat with a green paradise plume falling over one side."
Crowder's face wrinkled with a grin.
"Well, that's funny! You might have asked me forty others and I'd not have known. But thanks to your vivid description I can tell you—I saw her yesterday afternoon in those very togs. It's the youngest Alston girl."
"Who's she?"