"Ah, curiosity, you are Eve's own daughter," said Bertha Keys, with a laugh. "Well, now that we have met, we may as well talk the thing out. Can you deny that you are down and I am up?"
"I neither deny nor affirm your statement," replied Florence. "I have never heard of you—I have never mentioned your name since that dreadful day at Cherry Court six years ago."
"Six years this autumn—not quite six years yet," replied Bertha, correcting her. "Yes, I too remember the day," she said thoughtfully. "It seemed a bad day for me, and yet it was a good one. I have feathered my nest. You stepped out of it and I stepped in. Do you understand?"
"I don't."
"You have grown a good deal, Florence Aylmer," said Bertha, looking her all over. "You are what would be called a fine young woman. If you had had the advantages of a refined life, of very good dress, you might, now that you are grown up, command almost any future. As it is"—she shrugged her shoulders.
"What is the matter with my dress?" said Florence; "you always were queer and rude, Bertha, and time has not improved you."
"You cannot say that I am badly dressed," said Bertha Keys, and she glanced at her exquisitely-cut pink zephyr skirt, her pretty blouse, and her neat shoes.
Florence also eyed her all over.
"You are well got up," she said; "but what of that? Your face never changes."
"Thank you for the compliment," replied Bertha; "I cannot say that you are well got up, and your face, if it has changed, is not more beautiful than it promised to be."