"No!" she cried, with quick comprehension. "Sure you ain't!" More tears and laughter in her voice. "I'm going to-night, then--at six, Mr. Blaney." "Good! And to-morrow? There's a lot of swell country and breathing space round here I'd like to introduce you to. I bet you don't know whether Ingleside Woods is kindling or a breakfast food--now do you?" "No." "Ever had a chigger on you?" "Huh?" "Ever sleep outdoors in a bag?" "Say, whatta you think I am?" "Ever seen the sun rise, or took the time to look up and see several dozen or a couple of thousand or so stars glittering all at once?" "Aw, come off! We ain't doing teamwork in vaudeville." "Gee, wouldn't I like to take you out and be the first one to make you acquainted with a few of the things that are happening beyond Sixth Avenue--if I ain't too nervy, little missy?" "I gotta go somewheres at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon, Mr.--Mr. Blaney; but I can go in the morning--if it ain't going to look like I'm a freshie." "In the morning! Swell! But where--who--" She scribbled on a slip of paper and fluttered it into his hand. "Sara Juke! Some little name. Gee! I know right where you live. I know a lot of cases that come from round there. I used to live near there myself, round on Henry Street. I'll call round at nine, little missy. I'm going to introduce you to the country, eh?" "They won't hurt at the clinic, will they, Mr. Blaney? I'm losing my nerve again." "Shame on a pretty little thing like you losing her nerve! Gee! I've seen 'em come in here all pale round the gills and with nothing but the whooping cough. There was a little girl in here last week who thought she was ready for Arizona on a canvas bed; and it wasn't nothing but her rubber skirt-band had stretched. Shame on you, little missy! Don't you get scared! Wait till you see what I'm going to show you out in the country to-morrow--leaves turning red and all. We're going to have a heart-to-heart talk out there--eh? A regular lung-to-lung talk!" "Aw, Mr. Blaney! Ain't you killing!" She hurried down the room, laughing. * * * * * At Sharkey's on Saturday night the entire basement café and dance hall assumed a hebdomadal air of expectancy; extra marble-topped tables were crowded about the polished square of dancing space; the odor of hops and sawdust and cookery hung in visible mists over the bar. Girls, with white faces and red lips and bare throats, sat alone at tables or tête-à-tête with men too old or too young, and ate; but drank with keener appetite. A self-playing piano performed beneath a large painting of an undraped Psyche; a youth with yellow fingers sang of Love. A woman whose shame was gone acquired a sudden hysteria at her lone table over her milky-green drink, and a waiter hustled her out none too gently.