"Wait a minute," said Blanche LeHaye, sharply, and rose. She slouched
over to where Emma McChesney stood and looked up at her sullenly.

"Why!" gasped Emma McChesney, and involuntarily put out her hand,
"why--my dear--you've been crying! Is there--"

"No, there ain't. I can bawl, can't I, if I _am_ a bum burlesquer?"
She put down the squat little glass she had in her hand and stared
resentfully at Emma McChesney's cool, fragrant freshness.

"Say," she demanded suddenly, "whatja mean by lookin' at me the way
you did this morning, h'm? Whatja mean? You got a nerve turnin' up
your nose at me, you have. I'll just bet you ain't no better than you
might be, neither. What the--"

Swiftly Emma McChesney crossed the room and closed the door. Then she
came back to where Blanche LeHaye stood.

"Now listen to me," she said. "You shed that purple kimono of yours
and hustle into some clothes and come along with me. I mean it.
Whenever I'm anywhere near this town I make a jump and Sunday here.
I've a friend here named Morrissey--Ethel Morrissey--and she's the
biggest-hearted, most understanding friend that a woman ever had.
She's skirt and suit buyer at Barker & Fisk's here. I have a standing
invitation to spend Sunday at her house. She knows I'm coming. I help
get dinner if I feel like it, and wash my hair if I want to, and sit
out in the back yard, and fool with the dog, and act like a human
being for one day. After you've been on the road for ten years a real
Sunday dinner in a real home has got Sherry's flossiest efforts