"Nan, it's all fixed."
Fitzie, in a red hat with a feather, popped out of the soggy mass of women in the elevator crisp and bristling with excitement. She sat down beside Nan on the bench.
"My dear, you look a sight; you must be dreadfully tired. Never mind, some tea'll freshen you up famously.... But it's all fixed about our tour."
"You mean the orchestra?"
"Of course, Nancibel. We open next Monday in Montreal."
"It'll be dreadfully cold up there, I should think."
"But think, dearest, how wonderful! I've never traveled in my life before. We'll go all the way out to the Coast, San Francisco and all that."
"Fitzie, before you go we mustn't forget to call on Mabel Worthington. I'm very curious to meet her."
"O, we will, but let's get a table before they are all snapped up. I'm perishing."
The waitress had pretty brown eyes. She can't be more than eighteen, thought Nan as they sat down. Eleven years younger than I am. What happens in eleven years! Nothing. Everything. A mere kid Wenny would have been eleven years ago, inky-fingered curlypated schoolboy.