"Why not," suggested L. Frankland, "go in with me as partner?"
"Partner—that would be fine—but I haven't any money."
"Neither have I—and I'll be turned out of here a week from to-morrow if I haven't twenty-seven fifty by then. That's how much I'm behind." She smiled cheerfully. Then Georgia remembered her. She was the nice old maid who had given her the seat in the car on the day she had met Mason.
"What's your rent!"
"Twenty-seven fifty."
"What arrangements do you want to make?"
"Fifty-fifty on everything."
"I'll take a chance," said Georgia, removing her hat. "But," she exclaimed, looking around, "why you've only got one machine—and a double keyboard at that. I'm not used to them."
"We can rent another for a dollar a week—any sort you want," L. Frankland suggested with ready resource.
"We can't get it here to-day. Let's see, Miss, Miss ah—what is your name?" They told each other. "Miss Frankland, are you a fast writer?"