or something."

She shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. "It was he who dropped
me," says she. "Flat."

"Considerin' Lester," says I, "that's more or less of a compliment."

"I am not so sure of that," says Miss Joyce. "You see, he was quite
frank about it. He--he said I had no style or zipp about me. Well, I'm
afraid it's true."

"Even so," says I, "it was sweet of him to throw it at you, wasn't it?"

She indulges in a sketchy, quizzin' smile. "I think some of the girls at
Zinsheimer's had been teasing him about me," she goes on. "They called
me 'the poor little working girl,' I believe. I've no doubt I looked it.
But I haven't been able to spend much for clothes--as yet."

"Of course," says I, throwin' up a picture of an invalid mother and a
coon-huntin' father back in the alfalfa somewhere. "And so far you
ain't missed much by not havin' 'em. I should put Lester's loss down on
the credit side if I was makin' the entry."

"He could dance, though," says Miss Joyce, as she gets busy with her
pencil again.

Then a few weeks later I was handed my big jolt. We was gettin' out a
special report for the directors' meetin' one day after lunch when right
in the middle of a table of costs Miss Joyce glances anxious at the
clock and drops her note book.

"I'm so sorry," says she, "but couldn't we finish this tomorrow
morning?"

"Why, I suppose we might," says I, "if it's anything important."

"It is," says she. "If I'm not there by 3 o'clock the stage manager will
not see me at all, and I do so want to land an engagement this time."

"Eh?" says I gawpin'. "Stage manager! You?"

"Why, yes," says she. "You see, I tried once before. I was almost taken
on, too. They liked my voice, they said, but I wasn't up on my dancing.
So I've been taking lessons of a ballet master. Frightfully expensive.
That's where all my money has gone. But I think they'll give me a chance
this time. It's for the chorus of that new 'Tut! Tut! Marie' thing, you
know, and they've advertised for fifty girls."

I suppose I must have let loose a gasp. This meek, modest young thing,
who looked like she wouldn't know a lip-stick from a boiled carrot,
plannin' cold-blooded to throw up a nice respectable job and enter
herself in the squab market! Why, I wouldn't have been jarred more if
Piddie had announced that next season he was going to do bareback ridin'
for some circus.

"Excuse me, Miss Joyce," says I, "but I wouldn't say you was just the