“Listen, here’s a tip—never be modest when men are around,” Margaret said, gayly. “They think little enough of women as it is, and they’re always looking for a chance to walk over us.”
“Oh, it’s too much trouble not to be honest,” Blanche retorted, lightly. “Let them try to wa-alk, for all I care.”
“Have you ever written, or painted?” Oppendorf asked, liking the contradiction of her humble brassiness.
“I have fooled around with ideas of being a writer, but I’m afraid I don’t know English well enough for that,” said Blanche, uncertainly.
“Don’t take up writing, Miss Palmer—it’s only an excuse for laziness,” Helgin said. “That’s probably why so many young people try to toss off stories and verses. They have just a bit of imagination and they don’t like the prospect of slaving in father’s shoe store or helping mother bake the evening pies.”
“There must be a more important reason than that,” Blanche replied, soberly.
“Yes, it’s barely possible,” Oppendorf interjected. “It’s a habit with us to take our profession somewhat flippantly. That’s to avoid giving the impression that we’re too much in love with ourselves.”
“Funny, you do manage to give the impression, anyway,” Blanche answered, as she made a grimace.
Oppendorf and the others laughed, and Helgin said: “So, you’ve been carrying that little dagger all the time. Bright gal.”
“Not at all—just trying to imitate your style,” Blanche retorted, merrily.