"Speak to Mrs. Dooley about it, then," snapped the secretary.
As it happened, Mrs. Dooley was close at hand. She was the matron or superintendent, and was a big splendid-looking woman, who moved ponderously, like a steam-roller. She gave one look at me only and said loudly and belligerently:
"Sure. Let her in!"
The secretary shrugged then, and took my name and address in Quebec. Then she made out a bill, saying:
"It's five dollars in advance."
I was greatly embarrassed to be obliged to admit that my money was in my stocking. Mrs. Dooley laughed at that, my friend looked pained, and the secretary pierced me with an icy glare. She said:
"Nice girls don't keep their money in places like that."
It was on the tip of my tongue to retort that I was not "nice," but I bit my tongue instead. My friend gave me the opportunity to remove my "roll," and I really think it made some impression on these officers of the Y. W. C. A., for the secretary said:
"If you can afford it, you can have a room to yourself for six a week."