The remark, and the matter of fact, decisive way she said it, was typical of Mabel Train. She knew the life of the East Side well enough to recognize Harry's unsavory profession at a glance, and she did not waste time beating about the bush of euphemisms. She never declared a heart or a club when she meant a spade. Longman's eyebrows went up affirmatively, but he at once opposed the natural deduction from her observation. "Now, don't you go butting in, Mabel, until you're asked." She shrugged her shoulders. "The girl's a stranger. I guess I've got a right to welcome her." And with Longman lumbering behind her she crossed the hall. "Good evening," she said to Yetta, elaborately ignoring Harry's existence. "I'm Miss Train, secretary of the League. What's your trade?" But Yetta replied with a question. "Didn't you talk to the girls at the Neighborhood House?" "Yes. I gave them a talk on Trade Unions. Were you there? I don't remember your face." Yetta started to explain how she had watched the meeting from her window. But suddenly she began to stutter; she saw Miss Train look at Harry, saw the scorn and contempt in her eyes. Yetta could not remember what she was trying to say. Some newcomers rushed up and interrupted them. Mabel Train felt that the short conversation had been a decided failure. But to Yetta it had had immense significance. In the preceding months the Settlement had come to typify all the good things of life, for which she hungered. Like her cousin Rachel she "wanted to be good." The women whom she watched in the house across the street had seemed to her good, and also they seemed happy. Miss Train was of that world, she bore its stamp. And she did not trust Harry. Down crashed the dream into greater ruin. Yetta was afraid with Harry. Beside such women she would be safe. How could she escape? A man on the platform clapped his hands for attention and asked the people to take seats close to the stage. "Aw! Come on," Harry said; "let's beat it. This place is stupid." "No," Yetta said with the determination of fear; "I want to stay." BOOK II CHAPTER VII THE SKIRT-FINISHERS' BALL Harry was right. It was a stupid ball. It was more of a strike-meeting than a dance. To most of the people the speeches were of more importance than the two-steps. As he followed Yetta, grumblingly, up towards the platform he realized that the crowd of workers, packing in about them, cut off all possibility of escape. He had not set out that evening with the intention of sitting on a hard bench and listening to "a lot of rag-chewing." "Is this what you call fun?" he growled at Yetta. But the crowd--so foreign to his manner of life--intimidated him. He sank into surly silence.