But after supper she found herself locked in with another woman. She sat down on the edge of her cot, in the dim light of the room, and with a sharp glance, half fear, half curiosity, regarded her room-mate. This other was a woman of possibly thirty years, with sallow cheeks, bright burning eyes, and straggly hair. She stood before the little wall mirror, apparently examining herself. Suddenly she turned: "What you looking at, kid?" Rhona averted her eyes. "I didn't mean--" "Say," said the other, "ain't I the awful thing? Not a rat or a puff or a dab of rouge allowed in these here premises. I do look a sight--a fright. Gee!" She turned. "You're not so worse. A little pale, kid." She came over and sat next to Rhona. "What'll I call you?" Rhona shrank. She was a sensitive, ignorant girl, and did not understand this type of woman. Something coarse, familiar, vulgar seemed to grate against her. "Rhona's my name," she breathed. "Well, that's cute! Call you Ronie?" She stretched out her arms. "Oh, slats! I'd give my teeth for a cigarette and a Manhattan cocktail. Wouldn't I, though!" Rhona shuddered. The woman turned toward her. "My name's Millie. Now we're pals, eh?" Then she rattled on: "First time in the workhouse? Comes hard at first, doesn't it? Cut off from friends and fun--and ain't the work beastly? Say, Ronie, what's your job in little old New York?" Rhona swallowed a dull sob. "I haven't any--we're on strike." Millie jumped up. "What, you one of them shirtwaist strikers?" "Yes." "Why did they run you in?" "An officer struck me, and then said I struck him." "Just like a man! Oh, I know men! Depend upon it, I know the men! So, you were a shirt-waist-maker. How much d'yer earn?" "Oh, about five or six a week." "A--_week_!" Millie whistled. "And I suppose ten hours a day, or worse, and I suppose work that would kill an ox." "Yes," said Rhona, "hard work." Millie sat down and put an arm about the shrinking girl. "Say, kiddie, I like you. I'm going to chuck a little horse sense at you. Now you listen to me. My sister worked in a pickle-place over in Pennsy, and she lasted just two years, and then, galloping consumption, and--" She snapped her fingers, her voice became husky. "Poor fool! Two years is the limit where she worked. And who paid the rent? I did. But of course _I_ wasn't respectable--oh no! I was a sinner. Well, let me tell you something. In my business a woman can last five to ten years. Do you blame me? And I get clothes, and the eats, and the soft spots, and I live like a lady.... That's the thing for you! Why do you wear yourself out--slave-work and strikes and silly business?... You'll never get married.... The work will make you a hag in another year or two, and who will want you? And say, you've got to live just once--got to be just downright woman for a little spell, anyway.... Come with me, kid ... my kind of life."