'll
think of most anything. Well, to make a long story short, the old man
took me in the buggy to his house where he lived with his deaf,
half-blind old widowed daughter. I had to stay there three weeks. I
married him the fourth week. And just two months to a day from the
afternoon I sprained my ankle, he gave me fifty dollars a week--all
signed and sealed by a lawyer--to go away and leave him alone. I might
have stood out for more, but I was too anxious to get to New York. And
here I am!" She gazed about the well-furnished room, typical of that
almost luxurious house, with an air of triumphant satisfaction. Said
she: "I've no patience with a woman who says she can't get on. Where's
her brains?"

Mildred was silent. Perhaps it was a feeling of what was hazily in the
younger woman's mind and a desire to answer it that led Mrs. Belloc to
say further: "I suppose there's some that would criticize my way of
getting there. But I want to know, don't all women get there by
working men? Only most of them are so stupid that they have to go on
living with the man. I think it's low to live with a man you hate."

"Oh, I'm not criticizing anybody," said Mildred.

"I didn't think you were," said Mrs. Belloc. "If I hadn't seen you
weren't that kind, I'd not have been so confidential. Not that I'm
secretive with anybody. I say and do what I please. Anyone who doesn't
like my way or me can take the other side of the street. I didn't come
to New York to go in society. I came here to LIVE."

Mildred looked at her admiringly. There were things about Mrs. Belloc
that she did not admire; other things--suspected rather than known
things--that she knew she would shrink from, but she heartily admired
and profoundly envied her utter indifference to the opinion of others,
her fine independent way of walking her own path at her own gait.

"I took this boarding-house," Mrs. Belloc went on, "because I didn't
want to be lonesome. I don't like all--or even most of--the ladies
that live here. But they're all amusing to talk with--and don't put on
airs except with their men friends. And one or two are the real
thing--good-hearted, fond of a joke, without any meanness. I tell you,
New York is a mighty fine place if you get 'in right.' Of course, if
you don't, it's h-e-l-l." (Mrs. Belloc took off its unrefined edge by
spelling it.) "But what place isn't?" she added.

"And your husband never bothers you?" inquired Mildred.