"Oh, I know it's hard, but it's the truth. Now, listen. Your folks are all dead. Your last one, Dan, your brother, is dead, and you got no one else. It's just as well to face things. What I've got is yours, of course, but how much have we got, together? What chanct has a girl got? And a blind woman's a beggar, Sis. It's tough. But what are you going to _do_? Girls is flocking back out of Washington. The war factories is closing. There's thousands on the streets." "Annie, what do you _mean_?" "Oh, now, hush, Sis! Don't look at me that way, even through your glasses. It hurts. We've just got to face things. You've got to live. How?" "Well, then," said Mary Warren, suddenly rising, her hands to her hot cheeks, "well, then--and what then? I can't be a burden on you--you've done more than your half ever since I first had to go to the doctor about my eyes." "Cut all that out, now," said Annie, her eyes ominous. "I done what you'd a-done. But one girl can't earn enough for two, at ten per, and be decent. Go out on the streets and see the boys still in their uniforms. Every one's got a girl on his arm, and the best lookers, too. What then? As for the love and marriage stuff--well----" "As though you didn't know better yourself than to talk the way you do!" said Mary Warren. "I'm different from you, Mollie. I--I ain't so fine. You know why I liked you? Because you was different; and I didn't come from much or have much schooling. I've been to school to you--and you never knew it. I owe you plenty, and you won't understand even that." Mary only kissed her, but Annie broke free and went on. "When they come to talk about the world going on, and folks marrying, and raising children, after this war is over--you've got to hand it to them that this duty stuff has got a strong punch behind it. Besides, the kid idea makes a hit with me. But even if I did marry, I don't know what a man would say, these times, about my bringing some one else into his house. Men is funny." "Annie--Annie!" exclaimed Mary Warren once more. "Don't--oh, don't! I'd die before I'd go into your own real home! Of course, I'll not be a burden on you. I'm too proud for that, I hope." "Well, dope it out your own way, Sis," said her room-mate, sighing. "It ain't true that I want to shake you. I don't. But I'm not talking about Mary Warren when she had money her aunt left her--before she lost it in Oil. I'm not talking about Mary Warren when she was eighteen, and pretty as a picture. I ain't even talking about Mary a year ago, wearing dark glasses, but still having a good chanct in the store. What I'm talking about now is Mary Warren down and out, with not even eyes to see with, and no money back of her, and no place to _go_. What are you going to _do_, Sis? that's all. In my case--believe me, if I lose my chanct at this man, Charlie Dorenwald, I'm going to find another some time.