"What can I do? I shouldn't have mentioned her." Selwyn's forehead ridged frowningly, and, taking out his watch, he looked at it, took up his hat and coat, and held out his hand.
"Thank you for letting me talk to you. And don't worry about the other girl. You can't do anything."
"Perhaps I can't, but you said just now one of the many things you couldn't understand in women was their disregard of other women. That Mildred would probably give the girl no thought. The rich girl, you meant."
"Well—" Selwyn waited. "I did say it, but I don't see what you're getting at."
"That sometimes women do remember the woman who has to pay—the
price; do give a thought to the girl who is left to pay it alone.
Come to-morrow—no, not to-morrow. Come next week. It will take
Mrs. Mundy until then to—"
"Mrs. Mundy has nothing to do with Miss Swink. The other girl, I told you, can take care of herself. You mustn't look into that side of it. I'll attend to that, do what is necessary. It's only about her you seem to be thinking."
"I'm thinking about both girls, the poor one and the rich one. But the rich girl has a million-dollar mother to look after her. Good-by, and come Tuesday. I forgot—What is the girl's name, the little cashier-girl's?"
"Etta—Etta something." Selwyn made effort to think, then took a note-book out of his pocket and looked at it. "Etta Blake is her name. I wish you'd forget her. There are some things one can't talk about, but certainly you know I will do what is right if Harrie—" His face darkened.
"I know you will, but sometimes a girl needs a woman to do—what is right. She's such a little thing, and so young. Come Tuesday evening at eight o'clock."