"Why? To have them read in my face what I've been, and go back home to die of shame?"
The Probationer looked at the Avenue Girl's face.
"There—there is nothing in your face to hurt them," she said, flushing—because there were some things the Probationer had never discussed, even with herself. "You—look sad. Honestly, that's all."
The Avenue Girl held up her thin right hand. The forefinger was still yellow from cigarettes.
"What about that?" she sneered.
"If I bleach it will you let me send for your people?"
"I'll—perhaps," was the most the Probationer could get.
Many people would have been discouraged. Even the Senior was a bit cynical. It took a Probationer still heartsick for home to read in the Avenue Girl's eyes the terrible longing for the things she had given up—for home and home folks; for a clean slate again. The Probationer bleached and scrubbed the finger, and gradually a little of her hopeful spirit touched the other girl.
"What day is it?" the Avenue Girl asked once.
"Friday."