"Where's she live?"
"Down in Forty-fifth Street, near Eighth Avenue."
"What's the number of the house?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"Ain't you going back there?"
Joan shut down the lid of the suit-case and began to strap it. "Yes," she said with a trace of reluctance.
"I might wanta write to you," insisted Edna. "Anything might happen and you not know—"
"Oh, well, then," Joan admitted, with an air of extreme ennui, "the number's Two-eighty-nine. Catch that? Don't forget."
"I won't."
"Besides," Joan added, lifting her voice for the benefit of the listener in the dining-room, "you don't need to be so much in a rush to think I ain't ever coming back to see you. You got no right to think that of me, after the way I've turned in my pay week in and week out, right straight along. I don't know what makes you think I've turned mean. I'm going to come and see you and ma every week, and as soon's I begin to make money you'll get your share, all right, all right!"