Lena had felt a good deal—I could see that; but she knew nothing. To her, her own case was just one isolated case, and due to her bad luck. She had no idea that she was working at a problem, any more than Mrs. Bingy and I had when we left Katytown. Or any more than her mother's aunt, who was thick and flabby and bothered about too much saleratus in the flap-jacks. I thought of the difference between Lena and Rose. They'd got something so different out of a hard life. Rose felt hers for all women; but Lena felt hers for just Lena.
When we got back to the flat, Mrs. Bingy had the gas log burning and she was working at her lace. The child was awake, and playing about. Lena stood in the passage door and looked. We had some plain dark rugs and a few pieces of willow furniture that we had bought on the instalment plan. I had made some flowered paper shades for the lights. Mrs. Carney had given me one lovely colored print. I had my school-books and some library books on the shelves. And we had a red couch cover Mrs. Bingy had bought—"shut her eyes and bought," she said.
"Oh, ain't it nice?" Lena said.
"Luck sakes," said Mrs. Bingy. "If it ain't Lena-Curtsey-that-was. Well, if here ain't the whole neighborhood!"
I followed Lena into my little bedroom that night.
"Lena," I said, "does Luke know what you told me?"
She shook her head.
"Wouldn't you better write and tell him?" I asked. "And tell him just why you want to get away for a while?"
"He'd think I was crazy," she answered. "They'd talk it over. His ma'd say I was a wicked woman—and I donno but what I am. But I will be crazy if I stay stuck there in that kitchen all those months—"
She began to cry. I understood that the best thing to do was to let her stay here quietly with us and give her whatever little pleasure we could.