“He’s a pretty child,” said the elder woman with a dull glance at him. “I used to be fond of children, but, law! it’s no use trying to be fond of nothin’ in this world. There ain’t time.”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Dora. “I will bring chairs, and you can tell me about yourselves. Or will you come and see the room?”
“’Most any room will suit us if the rent does,” replied the woman. “We ain’t particular, and looking at rooms takes time.”
Dora, with Louis clinging to her skirts, brought seats, and the elder woman continued speaking just where she had left off. Indeed, it seemed as though she had at one time been a voluble talker; but that also had been crushed out of her.
“But, of course, you want to know about us, ma’am. Our name is Price,—Susan and Sally Price, and we’ve kep’ respectable, ma’am, though it’s been hard work. We are sewing women; work for Grind and Crushem,—that large shirt factory at the end of Blank Street.”
“It must be hard work,” said Dora pitifully.
“Well, it ain’t easy,” said Sally Price; “not even as easy as it might be. Some of the factories are running machines by steam, and having all the work done on the premises; but our bosses are too stingy for that. I should think it would pay ‘em, though, in the end.”
“I will let you have the room,” said Dora. “When do you want to come?”
Decidedly, Dora was a very bad business woman; a short-sighted, easily gulled, and far from sharp business woman.
“We’d like to come to-night, so’s to be ready to go to work early to-morrow morning,” answered Miss Price with some show of animation. “But won’t your husband swear at you, for lettin’ it go so cheap?”