The proprietor frowned down at his stubby fingers whose black
and cracked nails were drumming on the table. "Well--I might
give you a bed. There's a place I could put one in my
daughter's room. She sings and dances over at Louis Blanc's
garden in Third Avenue. Yes, I could put you there. But--no
privileges, you understand."
"Certainly. . . . I'll decide tomorrow. Maybe you'll not
want me."
"Oh, yes--if you can sing at all. Your looks'd please my
customers." Seeing the dubious expression in Susan's face, he
went on, "When I say `no privilege' I mean only about the room.
Of course, it's none of my business what you do outside. Lots
of well fixed gents comes here. My girls have all had good
luck. I've been open two years, and in that time one of my
singers got an elegant delicatessen owner to keep her."
"Really," said Susan, in the tone that was plainly expected of her.
"Yes--an _elegant_ gentleman. I'd not be surprised if he
married her. And another married an electrician that cops out
forty a week. You'll find it a splendid chance to make nice
friends--good spenders. And I'm a practical man."
"I suppose there isn't any work I could do in the daytime?"
"Not here."
"Perhaps----"
"Not nowhere, so far as I know. That is, work you'd care to
do. The factories and stores is hard on a woman, and she don't
get much. And besides they ain't very classy to my notion.
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