THE VERY TIRED GIRL
Then her face in the dusky light flared piteously with harlequined emotions. Her eyes blazed bright with toy excitement. Her lips curved impishly with exaggerated drollery. But when for a second her head drooped back against the banister her jaded small face looked for all the world like a death-mask of a Jester.
The Political Economist's heart crinkled uncomfortably within him.
"Why, you poor little girl," he said. "I did n't know that women got as tired as that. Let me take off your overshoes."
Noreen stood up like a well-trained pony and shed her clumsy footgear.
The Man's voice grew peremptory. "Your skirt is sopping wet. Are you crazy? Did n't have time to get into dry things? Nonsense! Have you had any supper? What? N-o! Wait a minute."
In an instant he was flying up the stairs, and when he came back there was a big glass of cool milk in his hand.
Noreen drank it ravenously, and then started downstairs with abrupt, quick courage.
When she reached the ground floor the Political Economist leaned over the banisters and shouted in a piercing whisper:
"I'll leave your overshoes outside my door where you can get them on your way up later."
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