"Off Sadie Whirtle!" cried Kern; and springing up gleefully from the sofa, began to pirouette and kick about the bleak office. The young man watched her, buttoning his overcoat, his specious merriment dying.... For all the high wages she earned, the Works was of course the last place on earth for her; but for the moment that did not happen to be the point. "Was it not bein' a lady to say the word like he did?" said Kern, swaying about and waving her arms like wings. "I told Sadie Whirtle it wasn't netiquette, but Sadie she said it wasn't funny without you used the swear. And I did want to make you laugh.... She druther be funny than netiquette, Sadie said." The young man picked up his bag again, his face intent. "I'm late with my calls," said he. "Tell your mother that I mayn't be back for dinner." "Sadie she heard a lady say damn once right out, a customer in the store, in a velvet suit--" "Now stop that foolish dancing, Corinne." Kern stopped dancing. She still looked a little pale from her illness, which had cost her seven pounds. That morning she had donned her working-clothes expectantly, but she had changed since coming in, and that accounted for her favorite red dress. The dress was a strict copy of the slender mode; she looked very small, indeed, in it. She wore a brave red ribbon in her hair, a necklace of red beads, and a long gilt chain which glittered splendidly as she moved. "What makes you look at me that way, Mr. V.V.?" The young man gave a small start and sigh. "You must take better care of yourself, Corinne," said he, from the depths of troubled thought. "I shall certainly do something better for you later on. That I promise." "Why, I feel very, _very_ well, Mr. V.V., truly." "You're much too clever and pretty to be wearing your life out at this sort of thing.... Much too dear a little girl...." Kern turned away. Mr. V.V. had never said such a thing to her before, and he now made a mental note that he must be careful not to do it again. He had honestly intended only a matter-of-fact statement of simple and, on the whole, pleasant truth; but Kern, with her sensitiveness and strange delicacy, too clearly felt that he had taken a liberty. All her gaiety died; her cheek seemed to flush a little. She walked stiffly past Mr. V.V. to the door, never looking in his direction. "I'll go soak the colliflower, sir," she murmured, and slipped away into the hall. XIII How Life was Gray and Everything was Horrid; how Carlisle went to Little Africa with Hen; how the Man spoke to her again, just the same, and what happened then; further, reporting a Confidential Talk with a Best Girl-Friend. Hearing the whir of a slowing motor behind her, and her name called besides, Henrietta Cooney checked her practised pedestrian's stride and looked back over her shoulder. The Heth car, with Carlisle alone in it, rolled abreast of her at the curb.