"There is n't a window in town that gives a better view," said the girl, "if you care for the view." The grimness of her humor indicated that she had not quite shaken off distrust.
"There is always the sky," Floyd said.
"Generally," she answered.
He said he would like to sign a lease for a year. The older woman appeared embarrassed, the younger indifferent.
"I generally ask for references," the girl's mother said at last. "I suppose you're in the company's office?"
"No," Floyd admitted. "I'm just going to begin in one of the mills. I think, though, the superintendent, Mr. Gregg, would vouch for me."
"Oh." The woman seemed reassured. "Some relation of his, I presume?"—for shrinking though she was, she had, as Floyd afterwards found out, her full measure of inquisitiveness.
"No, no relation," he replied. "But he found a place for me in one of the open-hearth mills."
"Well, if Mr. Gregg says it's all right;" she added in apology, "You see, two women living alone, we have to be careful."
The daughter interjected,—
"You forgot to say, mother, that payment is always a month in advance."
"Of course," Floyd said. "That is what I expected. I came prepared." He took out a roll of bills.
There was still an awkward pause; then the girl spoke frankly.
"You don't somehow look as if you belonged at the mills."
"Don't I?" Floyd laughed. "Well, you wait till you see me next Monday."
She looked at him steadily, and surrendered before the open honesty and amusement of his laugh. "All right," she said. "I'll wait and see how you look then." And
