Blanche noticed something “different” in the other girl and answered her more readily as they continued their talk.
“D’you live in the Village?” the other girl asked.
“No, I’m from uptown,” Blanche answered. “I’ve heard lots about it, though. I’d like to meet some of the int’resting artists and writers down here. There must be all kinds of them in the tearooms and places like that.”
The other girl gave her a pitying look.
“All kinds of fakers, you mean,” she replied. “They know how to brag about themselves, but that’s where it ends.”
“But I thought this was the part of town where real artists ’n’ writers came together,” Blanche persisted. “Of course, I didn’t believe they were all great ones, but I did believe they were all trying to do something, well, different, you know.”
“Oh, there are some down here, but you don’t usually find them in the showplaces or tearooms,” the other girl answered, as she and Blanche walked down the street. “Those places are for the mediocrities, and the pretenders, and the students ... and, oh, yes, the slummers. People from uptown hunting for something gayly wicked.”
“I suppose you think I’m a foolish slummer, too,” Blanche said, “but I’m not. I’ve just been walking along and thinking things over. I didn’t realize where I was.”
“I wasn’t being personal,” the other girl replied. “I sort of like the way you talk. Suppose we introduce ourselves to each other?”
They traded names and the other girl, Margaret Wheeler, went on: “You know, strangers are always supposed to distrust each other, but I can’t be annoyed. Every once in a while I talk to some girl on the street, and I’ve started a couple of interesting friendships that way. I’m not a Lesbian and I haven’t any other designs upon you.”