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Updated: June 15, 2025
The girl nodded. "Huh, that's what! I could live tony if I wanted, but I like to save my money. I makes good money, too, twelve dollars a week, and I don't spend it, neither." "What do you do?" I asked, regarding the large, rough hands with something like admiration for their earning abilities. "I'm a lady-buffer," she answered, with a touch of pride. "A lady-buffer! What's that?"
And with that she went out of the room, leaving me, I must confess, not sorry for having thus bluntly declared against wearing the definite badge of servitude. The "lady-buffer" and I were the last to leave the house. We went out together and parted company at Third Avenue, she going south to her work, and I continuing along the street westward.
I cried, looking at the slovenly, dirt-streaked wrapper and the shabby golf-cape that had slipped from her shoulders to the cot. She regarded me with pity for my ignorance, and then delivered herself of an axiom. "A lady-buffer is a lady what buffs."
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