Mrs. Saint Vincent was adding up numbers. She sighed once or twice and her hand discreetly rose to her aching forehead. She had always disliked arithmetic! It was unfortunate that lately her life seemed to consist entirely of a specific kind of addition, the relentless summing of small necessary expenses into a total that always surprised and worried her.
She definitely shouldn’t be going out so much! She checked the numbers again. She had made a small mistake with the pens, but otherwise the numbers were correct. Mrs. Saint Vincent sighed again. Her head was really about to burst now! She raised her eyes as the door opened and her daughter Barbara entered the room. Barbara Saint Vincent was a very beautiful girl, with her mother’s delicate features and the same proud carriage of the head, but her eyes were not blue but dark, and her mouth was different, a pouty red mouth but with its own charm.
“Oh, mother,” she exclaimed, “are you still doing magic tricks with those dreadful old bills? Throw them all into the fire!” “We need to know where we stand,” Mrs. Saint Vincent said uncertainly. The girl shrugged. “We’re where we’ve always been,” she said bluntly. “Squeezed as tight as can be. Counting every last penny, as usual.” Mrs. Saint Vincent sighed.
“I wish—” she began to say, but then stopped. “I have to find something to do,” Barbara said with a tight voice. “And fast. After all, I’ve taken those shorthand and typing classes. Like a million other girls, it seems! ‘What experience do you have?’ ‘None, but…’ ‘Ah, thank you, have a nice day. We’ll notify you.’ But they never do! I have to find some other job… any job.” “Not yet, my dear,” her mother pleaded. “Wait a little longer.” Barbara went to the window and stood there staring out with a vacant look, paying no attention to the miserable houses opposite her.