"Bed," she soliloquized, "is the place for me right quickly if I'm
going to be up and dressed and have that lunch ready by ten o'clock. I
wish I weren't such a sleepyhead--or else that I weren't a 'pore
wurrkin' gurl.'"
At which last conceit she laughed softly. Because, for a "pore
wurrkin' gurl," Miss Weir was fairly well content with her lot. She
had no one dependent on her--a state of affairs which, if it
occasionally leads to loneliness, has its compensations. Her salary as
a stenographer amply covered her living expenses, and even permitted
her to put by a few dollars monthly. She had grown up in Granville.
She had her own circle of friends. So that she was comfortable, even
happy, in the present--and Jack Barrow proposed to settle the problem
of her future; with youth's optimism, they two considered it already
settled. Six months more, and there was to be a wedding, a
three-weeks' honeymoon, and a final settling down in a little cottage
on the West Side; everybody in Granville who amounted to anything lived
on the West Side. Then she would have nothing to do but make the home
nest cozy, while Jack kept pace with a real-estate business that was
growing beyond his most sanguine expectations.
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