Miss Merrien smiled. “A man shot himself for that laugh the other day—I suppose you read about it,” she said.
“No, I did not. I have read the newspapers irregularly of late—the ‘stories,’ at least.”
“It is true,” said Rosita, complacently. “Oh, Patita, life is so lovely. To think that we both had such great destinies! Pobre Manuela, and Panchita, and all the rest! Bueno, go into the bedroom, both of you, and I will be there in ten minutes.”
Patience and Miss Merrien seated themselves in the white bower of velvet and lace.
“Please do not put me into your story,” said Patience, hastily. “It would not do—you see my husband would not like it—but we are old friends, and I wanted to see her.”
Miss Merrien nodded intelligently. With the suspicion of her craft she leaped to the conclusion that the fashionable young woman came to her disreputable friend for an occasional lark.
“Oh, I promise you. If you hadn’t asked me I should though. It would make a fine story.”
“Tell me,” said Patience abruptly, “do you like being a newspaper woman? Is it very hard work?”
“Yes, it’s hard work,” Miss Merrien answered in some surprise; “but then it is the most fascinating, I do believe, in the whole world. I have a family and a home out West, and I could go back and be comfortable if I wanted to; but I wouldn’t give up this life, with all its grind and uncertainty, for that dead and alive existence. I only go out there once a year to rest. I came on here for an experiment, to see a little of the world. I had a dreadful time catching on; once I thought I’d starve, for I was bound I wouldn’t write home for money; but I hung on and got there. And I’m here to stay.”
“Oh, is it really so pleasant? Sometimes I wish I were a newspaper woman.”