“Ever work in a factory?” I asked Schmitz. He deigned no answer. “Well, then, I'm telling _you_ I have, and hotel work ain't like a factory at _all_.” “Vell, you see it's dis vay—naturally—” This Thursday up in the recreation room I found an ancient scrubwoman, patched and darned to pieces, with stringy thin hair, and the fat, jovial Irishwoman from the help's pantry. The three of us had as giddy a half hour as anyone in all New York. We laughed at one another's jokes till we almost wept, and forgot all about the thermometer. The fat Irishwoman had worked at the hotel two years, the scrubwoman almost that long. Both “lived out.” They, too, informed me I had one of the best jobs in the hotel—nobody messin' in with what you're doin'—they leave y'alone. The fat one had worked some time in the linen room, but preferred pantry work. The linen room was too much responsibility—had to count out aprons and towels and things in piles of ten and tie them, and things like that—made a body's head swim. Realizing Schmitz's growing discomfort, I finally had to tear myself away. The fat Irishwoman called after me, “Good-by, dear, and God bless y'.” Upstairs at supper that night I had the luck to land again at a talkative table. We discussed many things—Ireland, for one. One girl was she who had come two years ago from Ireland and did salads in the main kitchen. Such a brogue! An Irish parlor maid had been long years in this country. The two asked many questions of each other about their life in the Old Country. “Shure,” sighed one, “I love every stick and every stone and tree and blade of grass in Ireland!” “Shure,” sighed the other, “an' that's just the way I feel about it, too!” Everyone at the table liked working at our hotel. According to them, the hotel was nice, the girls nice, hours nice. The subject of matrimony, as ever, came up. Not a soul at the table but what was ag'in' it. Why should a woman get married when she can support herself? All she'd get out of it would be a pack of kids to clean up after, and work that never ended. Of course, the concession was eventually made, if you were sure you were gettin' a good man— But how many good men were there in the world? And look at the divorces nowadays! Why try it at all? One girl reported as statistically accurate that there was one divorce in the United States to every four marriages. “You don't say!” was the chorus. The subject changed to summer hotels. One woman had worked last summer as a waitress at one of the beaches. That was the swellest job ever—just like a vacation! All summer she had two tables only to wait on, two persons at a table. Each table had tipped her five dollars a week. Next summer we all must try it.