“We may have to get out of this place at a minute’s warning,” resumes Mamma, after a time, “and how can we expect to dodge the cops with that gal tied to us? You and I can alter our looks, but we can’t alter hers.”
“No,” says Papa, shaking his head, “we can’t alter hers—not now.”
“And if we could, we can’t alter her actions.”
“No; we can’t alter her actions,” agrees Papa, with a cunning leer, “except to make ’em worse.”
And he casts a suggestive glance toward the tin cup on the floor.
“It won’t do,” said Mamma, noting the direction of his glance; “it won’t do to increase the drams. If she got worse, we couldn’t manage her at all. It won’t do to give her any more.”
“And it won’t do to give her any less. Old woman, we’ve just got back to the place we started from.”
Mamma Francoise rests her chin in her ample palm and ponders.
“I think I can see a way,” she begins. Then, at the sound of an uncertain footstep on the rickety stairs, she stops to listen. “That’s her,” she says, a frown darkening her face. “She’s got to be kept off the street.”
She goes to the door, opens it with an angry movement, and peers out into the dark hall.