"What are you going to do now?" he asked after a pause. "After you get home, I mean?"
"I don't know. Work, I suppose, at something."
"What—slums?"
"Oh, I suppose so.—No, I'd rather do something harder, like stenography—something with a lot of dull, grinding routine. That's the best way."
"A stenographer!"
"Or a matron in a home.—Why not? I must do something. I won't live with Mama, that's flat."
"You think you must go home, do you?"
"You wouldn't expect me to stay here and—?"
"No, but couldn't you find something to do here as well as there?"
"Yes, but why? I suppose I want to go home, things being as they are. If I've got to live somewhere, I'd rather live among my own people. I didn't come here because I liked America best...."