In her way Lolly was as slangy as Estelle, but there was a subtle difference between their slangs. Lolly was a lady. I do not care for the word, but gentlewoman somehow sounds affected here. Estelle was not. Yet Lolly was a cigarette fiend, and, according to her own wild tales, had had a most extraordinary career.
Lolly had the most charming smile. It was as sunny as a child's, and showed a row of the prettiest of teeth. She was impulsive, and yet at times exceedingly moody.
I told her I thought she was quite the prettiest girl in the place, whereupon she gave me a squeeze and said:
"What about yourself?"
Then she wanted to know what I did with myself all the time. I said:
"Why, I look for work all day."
"But at night?"
Oh, I just stayed in my room and tried to write or to practise on the type-writer.
"Pooh!" said Lolly, "you'll die of loneliness that way. Why don't you get a sweetheart?"
I suppose my face betrayed me, for she said: