The souls they try to save know just enough to be wise
to the fact that they couldn't hold down a five-per-week job. Don't
you feel sorry for me. I'm doing the only thing I'm good for."
Emma McChesney put out her hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I only meant
it for--"
"Why, of course," agreed Blanche LeHaye, heartily. "And you, too." She
turned so that her broad, good-natured smile included Ethel Morrissey.
"I've had a whale of a time. My fingers are all stained up with new
potatoes, and my nails is full of strawberry juice, and I hope it
won't come off for a week. And I want to thank you both. I'd like to
stay, but I'm going to hump over to the theater. That Dacre's got the
nerve to swipe the star's dressing-room if I don't get my trunks in
first."
They walked with her to the front porch, making talk as they went.
Resentment and discomfiture and a sort of admiration all played across
the faces of the two women, whose kindness had met with rebuff. At the
foot of the steps Blanche LeHaye, prima donna of the Sam Levin
Crackerjack Belles turned.
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