I was feeling profoundly depressed, miserable, disgusted with everything. For the first time I began to regret ever leaving home. Out on the creeks I was happy. Here in the town the glaring corruption of things jarred on my nerves.
And it was in this place Berna worked. She waited on these wantons; she served those swine. She heard their loose talk, their careless oaths. She saw them foully drunk, staggering off to their shameful assignations. She knew everything. O, it was pitiful; it sickened me to the soul. I sat down and buried my face in my hands.
"Order, please."
I knew that sweet voice. It thrilled me, and I looked up suddenly. There was Berna standing before me.
She gave a quick start, then recovered herself. A look of delight came into her eyes, eager, vivid delight.
"My, how you frightened me, I wasn't expecting you. Oh, I am so glad to see you again."
I looked at her. I was conscious of a change in her, and the consciousness came with a sense of shearing pain.
"Berna," I said, "what are you doing with that paint on your face?"
"Oh, I'm sorry." She was rubbing distressfully at a dab of rouge on her cheek. "I knew you would be cross, but I had to; they made me. They said I looked like a spectre at the feast with my chalk face; I frightened away the customers. It's just a little pink,—all the women do it. It makes me look happier, and it doesn't hurt me any."
"What I want is to see in your cheeks, dear, the glow of health, not the flush of a cosmetic. However, never mind. How are you?"