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Updated: June 28, 2025
Julia stood at the head of the stairway just next to Sadie's desk and watched Two-eighteen until the bend in the corridor hid her. Julia, of the lady's-maid staff, could never have qualified for the position of floor clerk, even if she had chosen to bury herself in lavender-and-white crocheted shawls to the tip of her marvellous little Greek nose.
Julia, at the head of the stairway, stood looking after Two-eighteen until the tail of her silken draperies had whisked round the corner. Then, still staring, Julia spoke resentfully: "Life for her is just one darned pair of long white kid gloves after another! Look at her! Why is it that kind of a face is always wearing the sables and diamonds?"
"That bill belongs to him." Sadie Corn motioned to him. "Pick it up!" she said. "I don't want it!" snarled Two-twenty-three. "Pick it up!" articulated Sadie Corn very carefully. He came forward, stooped, put the bill in his pocket. "You check out to-night!" said Sadie Corn. Then, at a muttered remonstrance from him: "Oh, yes, you will! So will Two-eighteen. Huh? Oh, I guess she will!
There passed between Sadie Corn and Two-eighteen a well, you could hardly call it a look, it was so fleeting, so ephemeral; that electric, pregnant, meaning something that flashes between two women who dislike and understand each other. Then Two-eighteen was off down the hall to her room.
He balanced a moment thoughtfully from toe to heel, his chin lifted inquiringly: "Keep your eye on Two-eighteen and Two-twenty-three this morning?" "Like a lynx!" answered Sadie. "Anything?" "Not a thing. I guess they just scraped acquaintance in the Alley after dinner, like they sometimes do. A man with eyelashes like his always speaks to any woman alone who isn't pockmarked and toothless.
Julia turned again, walked down the corridor and round the corner in the direction of two-eighteen. Long after Julia had disappeared Sadie Corn stared after her miserable, regretful. Julia knocked once at the door of two-eighteen and turned the knob before a high, shrill voice cried: "Come!" Two-eighteen was standing in the centre of the floor in scant satin knickerbockers and tight brassière.
Two-eighteen caught the glance in the mirror. She stopped her idle polishing and preening to study the glowing and lovely little face that looked up at her. A certain queer expression grew in her eyes a speculative, eager look. "Tell me, little girl," she said, "What do you do round here?" Julia turned from the mirror to the last of the hooks, her fingers working nimbly. "Me?
Just before seven there disembarked at floor two out of the cream-and-gold elevator one of those visions that have helped to make Fifth Avenue a street of the worst-dressed women in the world. The vision was Two-eighteen, and her clothes were of the kind that prepared you for the shock that you got when you looked at her face.
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