"Why did they run you in?"
"An officer struck me, and then said I struck him."
"Just like a man! Oh, I know men! Depend upon it, I know the men! So, you were a shirt-waist-maker. How much d'yer earn?"
"Oh, about five or six a week."
"A—week!" Millie whistled. "And I suppose ten hours a day, or worse, and I suppose work that would kill an ox."
"Yes," said Rhona, "hard work."
Millie sat down and put an arm about the shrinking girl.
"Say, kiddie, I like you. I'm going to chuck a little horse sense at you. Now you listen to me. My sister worked in a pickle-place over in Pennsy, and she lasted just two years, and then, galloping consumption, and—" She snapped her fingers, her voice became husky. "Poor fool! Two years is the limit where she worked. And who paid the rent? I did. But of course I wasn't respectable—oh no! I was a sinner. Well, let me tell you something. In my business a woman can last five to ten years. Do you blame me? And I get clothes, and the eats, and the soft spots, and I live like a lady…. That's the thing for you! Why do you wear yourself out—slave-work and strikes and silly business?… You'll never get married…. The work will make you a hag in another year or two, and who will want you? And say, you've got to live just once—got to be just downright woman for a little spell, anyway…. Come with me, kid … my kind of life."
Rhona looked at her terrified. She did not understand. What sort of woman was this? How live in luxury without working? How be downright woman?
"What do you mean?" asked the young girl.