I'll never forget how Rose looked. She had on a little tight brown jacket and a woolen cap. Her skirt was wet and her boots were muddy. She stood winking in the light, and panting a little.
"My!" she said, "you live high up, don't you?" Then she stood staring at me. "Cosma," she said, "how beautiful!"
She dropped into a chair. In that first thing she said she had been the old Rose. Then she got still and shy, and sat openly looking at my clothes. She was not more than twenty-one, and the factory life had not told on her too much. Yet some of the life seemed to have gone out of her. She talked as if not all of her was there. She sat quietly and she looked as if she were resting all over. But her eyes were bright and interested as she looked at my dress.
I said, "People have been good to me, Rose. They gave me these."
"You're different, too," she said, looking hard at me. "You talk different, too. Oh, dear. I bet you won't do it!"
"Tell me what it is," I said, and put the lace dress over my head.
"It's the first meeting since the fire," Rose said. "I wanted you there."
I asked her what fire, and her eyes got big.
"Didn't you know," she said, "about the fire in our factory? Didn't you know the doors were locked again, and five of us burned alive?"