Help Wanted Female list and tore out possibilities. They stood undecided in front of the baggage check counter. It cost ten cents to check each parcel.
"The janitor said Bison Hall wasn't going to be used now because it's summer, why don't we leave them there?" suggested Lucy.
"Why didn't I think of that? You know, that place isn't so bad when clean."
"Yes, and I could practice in the hall. I must go and tell Miss Klemper about last night because she's leaving tomorrow for her vacation in New York. If I could study in New York like her I wouldn't come back to Denver, would you?"
"Well, dear, everybody doesn't care for the same thing. I think Denver is very nice." If only things were as simple as Pussy made them seem. But it was a good idea, leaving everything at Bison Hall for a while.
The janitor acted glad to see them again. Mae gave Lucy a quarter for lunch and said to meet her at the hall at six thirty.
Lucy started toward the Empire but went back to the hall. It would never do to see Mr. Brady without makeup and high heels. She frizzed her hair and looked at herself critically. No, it wouldn't look good to have on quite so much makeup as Saturday night. She rubbed some off. Something was missing. A little blue around the eyes, cascara—no, mascara, and lipstick. Well, a little eyebrow pencil too. Easy to tighten her belt into a new notch because she was thinner since last week.
A rouged girl with coarse skin and a big pasty red mouth came out of Mr. Brady's office and glanced with instinctive antagonism at Lucy. Lucy stared back. The rouge didn't look good but the soft black felt hat pulled rakishly over a mop of brown curls, and the hat's red quill, seemed the essence of professionalism. Lucy looked at the brunette admiringly. My goodness, she must know a lot. Three straps collared the bony ankles of the dancer's sinewy legs and on each inner ankle was a black smudge where she rubbed them as she minced along.
The typist motioned Lucy toward the private office.
The bags under Mr. Brady's eyes were accentuated by the artificial light. The lines and jowls of his face had sunk into customary channels after daily contortions in front of the shaving mirror. But the daily resurrection of his spirits had yet to be sparked. He was irritated rather than stimulated by the muscular stretchings of the
