The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
Delamere."
"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
McManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
overtime three nights a week.
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