A week later, in a lamp-lighted street, Mary and Carrie met. Each girl was too conscious of her own business to remark that it was the business of her acquaintance, and each tried to avoid the other; but before recognition was complete they were face to face. Silence was confession. Mary spoke. "Hello," she said, "it's a long time since I seen you. How are you, anyways?" Carrie, though still a homely girl, wore a close-fitting coat that made the best of her figure. Her hat was wide and new and, as she answered, she turned from the light. "Pretty well," she said, and paused short. "I guess," said Mary, "you thought it was queer, my never comin' to see you; but I haven't had a single chance. I'll come soon, honest I will. How's Katie?" "I don't know," Carrie slowly answered, "I'm not living with her any more." "You ain't? Since when ain't you?" "Oh, I don't know--a couple of weeks." "You two didn't scrap?" "No. I had to go away." And then, to divert the fire, Carrie added: "Are you still working at that place the Settlement-people got for you?" "No, I left that long ago. Have you gone back to the shirtwaist-factory?" "I couldn't: the strike was never settled, and, anyhow, they wouldn't have taken me back if I'd been willing to go." Mary looked at the long coat and the gray hat. "But, say," she began, "you don't look----" Her eyes dropped to Carrie's and, suddenly, she knew. Her voice softened. "I'm sorry," she said. "I had to do it, too." Silently they touched hands. The Lithuanian's breast rose and fell quickly. "I couldn't do anything else," said Carrie, but only in explanation, not in extenuation or excuse. "There was no other work I could do." "I know," said Mary. "And everywhere I went," continued Carrie, "he followed me. He was always just behind me when I walked, always just around the corner when I stood still. When I was dizzy and hungry, he always looked well fed and always had the money in his hand. He waited, waited, waited." "You mean your fellow?" Mary asked. Carrie assented. "If you can call him that," she said. "He has two or three others working for him, or he'd be across the street now. I'm different from them--freer. I'm not afraid of him, and so he is a little afraid of me." Mary took the girl's arm. "They won't let us stop this way on the pavement," she said. "Come in here and have a drink." They went into the women's room of one of the quieter saloons. Mary, mindful of the doctor's directions, took only carbonated water, but Carrie ordered whiskey. Mary, with her stomach crying out for the alcohol, and, in that wrenching desire, nearly seizing her companion's liquor, sipped the water. "I've quit it," she averred. "It don't pay." "Most of the men make you take it," said Carrie.