Janet was silent, angrier than ever, shocked that tragedy, degradation, could be accepted thus circumstantially. Lise proceeded to put up her hair. She seemed to be mistress of herself; only tired, gaping frequently. Once she remarked:—“I don't see the good of getting nutty over a highball.”
Seeing that Janet was not to be led into controversy, she grew morose.
Breakfast in Fillmore Street, never a lively meal, was more dismal than usual that morning, eaten to the accompaniment of slopping water from the roofs on the pavement of the passage. The indisposition of Lise passed unobserved by both Hannah and Edward; and at twenty minutes to eight the two girls, with rubbers and umbrellas, left the house together, though it was Janet's custom to depart earlier, since she had farther to go. Lise, suspicious, maintained an obstinate silence, keeping close to the curb. They reached the corner by the provision shop with the pink and orange chromos of jellies in the window.
“Lise, has anything happened to you?” demanded Janet suddenly. “I want you to tell me.”
“Anything happened—what do you mean? Anything happened?”
“You know very well what I mean.”
“Well, suppose something has happened?” Lise's reply was pert, defiant. “What's it to you? If anything's happened, it's happened to me—hasn't it?”
Janet approached her.
“What are you trying to do?” said Lise. “Push me into the gutter?”
“I guess you're there already,” said Janet.