Pulling their bed out from the wall, Joan disentangled from the accumulation of odds and ends beneath it a small suit-case of matting, in which she began to pack her scanty store of belongings: all in embittered silence, ignoring her sister.
"Where'd you stay last night?" Edna ventured, at length.
"With a friend of mine," Joan answered brusquely.
"Who?" the other persisted.
Joan hesitated not one instant; the lie was required to save her face.
"Maizie Dean, if you got to know."
"Who's Maizie Dean? I never heard you speak of her—"
"Lizzie Fogarty, then," said Joan roughly. "She used to work with me at the stocking counter. Then she went on the stage. Now she's making big money."
"Is she going to get you a job?"
"Of course—foolish!"