The girl whistled. She was proud of her knowledge.
"That old cat Charlotte Michaels!" she commented. "I bet she stuck you."
"She charges me seven dollars a week for a third-floor back hall-bedroom."
"Hell, that's a steal. Come next door to where I am, next week. There'll be a better room there, then, for a dollar less."
Mary looked at the child. It seemed strange that she should be about to ask of one perhaps two years her junior for directions in the ways of the street; but she saw that the childishness before her was childishness without innocence, was even lined and scarred by wisdom. She wondered about her own face.
"I'm goin' to start out to-night," she said.
In the etiquette of this trade the workers ask no questions of one another and offer few biographies save those fictitious ones, the threadbare, unimaginative lies, which they reserve for their inquisitive purchasers. Mary's entertainer, therefore, put forward no inquiries save one:
"New in this town?" she asked.
"I'm new in the business," said Mary.
The child eyed her doubtingly.