“Now you are to rest while I get supper,” Olga said as she threw open her own door. “Here—give me your things.” She took Lizette’s hat and coat. “Now you lie down in there until I call you.”
Without a word Lizette obeyed.
Olga creamed some chipped beef, toasted bread, and made tea, adding a few cakes that she had bought on the way home. When all was ready, she stood a moment, frowning at the table. The cloth was fresh and clean, but the dishes were cheap and ugly. She had never cared before. Now, for this other girl, she wanted some touch of beauty. But Lizette found nothing lacking.
“Everything tastes so good,” she said. “You sure do know how to cook, Olga.”
“Just a few simple things. I never care much what I eat.”
“You’d care if you had to eat at Miss Rankin’s table,” Lizette declared.
With a question now and then, Olga drew her on to tell of her life at Miss Rankin’s, and her work at the store. After a little she talked freely, glad to pour the tale of her troubles into a sympathetic ear.
“I hate it all—that boarding-house, where nothing and nobody is really clean, and the store where only the pretty girls or the extra smart ones ever get on. The pretty girls always have chances, but me—I’m homely as sin, and I know it; and I’m not smart, and I know that, too. I shall get my walking ticket the first dull spell, and then——”
“Then, what, Lizette?”
“The Lord knows. It’s a hard world for girls, Olga.”