For a second or two they stood staring at each other. “How did you come here?” Marija exclaimed.
“I came to see you,” he answered.
“When?”
“Just now.”
“But how did you know—who told you I was here?”
“Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.”
Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. The rest of the crowd was watching them, and so Marija got up and came closer to him. “And you?” Jurgis asked. “You live here?”
“Yes,” said Marija, “I live here.” Then suddenly came a hail from below: “Get your clothes on now, girls, and come along. You’d best begin, or you’ll be sorry—it’s raining outside.”
“Br-r-r!” shivered some one, and the women got up and entered the various doors which lined the hallway.
“Come,” said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which was a tiny place about eight by six, with a cot and a chair and a dressing stand and some dresses hanging behind the door. There were clothes scattered about on the floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere—boxes of rouge and bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the dresser, and a pair of slippers and a clock and a whisky bottle on a chair.