She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. How old are you?” She asked. He was profoundly stirred. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. You got to take the world as it is, and the only possible trade for a girl that isn’t sweated is to get hold of a man and make him do it for her.
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