“Tips!” Mrs. Brady hissed it. She almost spat it. Plainly money was nothing, nothing at all, to this lady. “I just wish,” said Mrs. Brady, and glared at Miss Levin, “I just wish _you_ had to spend one Saturday night, just one, in that dressing room! Bein’ pushed an’ stepped on and near knocked down by that gang of hussies, an’ them orderin’ an’ bossin’ you ’round like you was _black_, an’ usin’ your things an’ then sayin’ they’re sorry, they got no change, they’ll be back. Yah! They _never_ come back!” “There’s Mr. Costello,” whispered Miss Levin through lips that, like a ventriloquist’s, scarcely stirred. “An’ as I was sayin’,” Mrs. Brady said at once brightly, “I got to leave you. Ten to ten, time I was on the job.” She smirked at Miss Levin, nodded, and right-about-faced. There, indeed, Mr. Costello was. Mr. Billy Costello, manager, proprietor, monarch of all he surveyed. From the doorway of the big room, where the little tables herded in a ring around the waxen floor, he surveyed Mrs. Brady, and in such a way that Mrs. Brady, momentarily forgetting her bad heart, walked fast, scurried faster, almost ran. The door of her domain was set politely in an alcove, beyond silken curtains looped up at the sides. Mrs. Brady reached it breathless, shouldered it open, and groped for the electric switch. Lights sprang up, a bright white blaze, intolerable for an instant to the eyes, like sun on snow. Blinking, Mrs. Brady shut the door. The room was a spotless, white-tiled place, half beauty shop, half dressing room. Along one wall stood washstands, sturdy triplets in a row, with pale-green liquid soap in glass balloons afloat above them. Against the opposite wall there was a couch. A third wall backed an elongated glass-topped dressing table; and over the dressing table and over the washstands long rectangular sheets of mirror reflected lights, doors, glossy tiles, lights multiplied.... Mrs. Brady moved across this glitter like a thick dark cloud in a hurry. At the dressing table she came to a halt, and upon it she laid her newspaper, her magazine, and her purse--a black purse worn gray with much clutching. She divested herself of a rusty black coat and a hat of the mushroom persuasion, and hung both up in a corner cupboard which she opened by means of one of a quite preposterous bunch of keys. From a nook in the cupboard she took down a lace-edged handkerchief with long streamers. She untied the streamers and tied them again around her chunky black alpaca waist. The handkerchief became an apron’s baby cousin.