"I'm tired of the Grays. They're very nice people, but they can't talk," said Una to Bessie Kraker, at lunch in the office, on a February day. "How do yuh mean 'can't talk'? Are they dummies?" inquired Bessie. "Dummies?" "Yuh, sure, deef and dumb." "Why, no, I mean they don't talk my language--they don't, oh, they don't, I suppose you'd say 'conversationalize.' Do you see?" "Oh yes," said Bessie, doubtfully. "Say, listen, Miss Golden. Say, I don't want to butt in, and maybe you wouldn't be stuck on it much, but they say it's a dead-swell place to live--Miss Kitson, the boss's secretary where I was before, lived there--" "Say, for the love o' Mike, _say_ it: _Where?_" interrupted the office-boy. "You shut your nasty trap. I was just coming to it. The Temperance and Protection Home, on Madison Avenue just above Thirty-fourth. They say it's kind of strict, but, gee! there's a' _ausgezeichnet_ bunch of dames there, artists and everything, and they say they feed you swell, and it only costs eight bucks a week." "Well, maybe I'll look at it," said Una, dubiously. Neither the forbidding name nor Bessie's moral recommendation made the Home for Girls sound tempting, but Una was hungry for companionship; she was cold now toward the unvarying, unimaginative desires of men. Among the women "artists and everything" she might find the friends she needed. The Temperance and Protection Home Club for Girls was in a solemn, five-story, white sandstone structure with a severe doorway of iron grill, solid and capable-looking as a national bank. Una rang the bell diffidently. She waited in a hall that, despite its mission settee and red-tiled floor, was barrenly clean as a convent. She was admitted to the business-like office of Mrs. Harriet Fike, the matron of the Home. Mrs. Fike had a brown, stringy neck and tan bangs. She wore a mannish coat and skirt, flat shoes of the kind called "sensible" by everybody except pretty women, and a large silver-mounted crucifix. "Well?" she snarled. "Some one-- I'd like to find out about coming here to live--to see the place, and so on. Can you have somebody show me one of the rooms?" "My dear young lady, the first consideration isn't to 'have somebody show you' or anybody else a room, but to ascertain if you are a fit person to come here." Mrs. Fike jabbed at a compartment of her desk, yanked out a corduroy-bound book, boxed its ears, slammed it open, glared at Una in a Christian and Homelike way, and began to shoot questions: "Whatcha name?" "Una Golden." "Miss uh Miss?" "I didn't quite--" "Miss or Mrs., I _said_. Can't you understand English?" "See here, I'm not being sent to jail that I know of!" Una rose, tremblingly. Mrs. Fike merely waited and snapped: "Sit down. You look as though you had enough sense to understand that we can't let people we don't know anything about enter a decent place like this.... Miss or Mrs., I said?" "Miss," Una murmured, feebly sitting down again.