“Yes, it isn’t far—Ninth Street near T.”
“We’re neighbours then. I live on Eleventh.”
“I know. Saw you going in there once,” Lizette replied.
There was little talk between them as they walked. Lizette was waiting—Olga wondering what she should say to this girl.
“Well, here’s where I hang out.” In Lizette’s voice there was a reckless and bitter tone.
“O—here!” Olga’s quick glance took in the ugly house-front with its soiled “Kensington” curtains—its door ajar showing worn oilcloth in the hall.
“Cheerful place—eh?” Lizette said. “Want to see the inside, or is the outside enough?”
“I want you to come home to supper with me—will you?” Olga said, half against her will.
“Do you mean it?” Lizette’s hard blue eyes searched her face. “Take it back in a hurry if you don’t, for I’d accept an invitation from—anybody to-night, rather than spend the evening here.”
“Of course, I mean it. Please come.” Olga laid a compelling hand on the other girl’s arm and they went on down the street.