“Pinky's getting too low down—drinks too much; can't count on her any more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she doesn't take any care of herself.”
As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner attracted Pinky's attention.
“Are you looking for anybody?” she asked.
“I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I'm a stranger from the country.”
“Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her disfigured face could not be seen.
“Yes I'm from L——.”
“Indeed? I used to know some people there.”
“Then you've been in L——?” said the girl, with a pleased, trustful manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time.
“Yes, I've visited there.”
“Indeed? Who did you know in L——?”