Mrs. Brewster-Smith's descent from the tonneau was more rapid than graceful.
"What are you trying to do?" she demanded. "Geneviève, I don't understand you."
"Don't you?"
The diffident girl had suddenly assumed the incisive strength of observant womanhood.
"I think you do. I am going to show you your own responsibilities, if that's a possible thing. I'm not going to let you throw them on George because he's a man and your kin; and I shan't let him throw them on an irresponsible agent because he has neither the time nor the inclination to do justice to himself, to you, nor to these people to whom he is responsible."
She waved a hand down the muddy, jumbled street.
The advent of an automobile had had its effect. Eager faces appeared at windows and doors. Children frankly curious and as frankly neglected climbed over each other, hanging on the ragged fences. Two mongrel dogs strained at their chains, yelping furiously. Geneviève crossed to the little square building bearing a gilt "office" sign. There was no response to her imperative knock, but a middle-aged man appeared on the porch of the adjoining shack and observed her curiously.
"Wanta rent?" he called jëeringly.
"Are you in charge here?" Geneviève inquired.
"Sorter," he temporized. "Watcha want?"