The fat one recoiled; there was enough recklessness in the eyes of the woman with the scissors to justify the movement. "Now, now, Frenchy," she remonstrated, "you won't be a fool. Possy bate, eh?"
"Pas si bête," laughed the other grimly. "Try it and see!"
"You know," said the rubicund one, "this ain't white, Berthe. Whose fault is it if you've no money?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Berthe. "You think me of your kind. I'm a lady; I was a fool to come here."
"Sure, you're a lady; and for that very reason ought to make a mint of money. I'll tell you what's the matter with you, Berthe—you're a mule. I swear," she exclaimed, suddenly conscious of wrong, "my boarders is the bane of my life. Mules—but there, nobody'd believe what I've borne."
"Malheureuse!" sneered Berthe.
"I tell you, missy, girls don't talk that way to me!" exclaimed the red-gowned dame, perhaps suspecting unseemly profanity veiled in a foreign tongue.
"I don't want to talk any way to you. Get out," replied Berthe.
"And the board bill?"
"I've had nothing to eat for two days."