Cross grunted. "Them were Teachers College girls." She wrinkled
her nose. "They send 'em over here often. And let me tell _you_, I
never seen _one_ of 'em with any class _yet_.... They talk about
college girls--pooh! I never seen a college girl yet looked any
classier than us laundry girls. Most of 'em don't look _as_ classy.
Only difference is, if you mixed us all up, they're gettin' educated."

One of my erstwhile jobs at the University of California had been
piloting college girls around through factories in just that fashion.
I had to laugh in my sleeve as I suspected the same remarks may have
been passed on us after our departure!

* * * * *

We have much fun at our lunch table. A switchboard operator and file
clerk from the office eats with us. She and I "guy" each other a good
deal during the meal. Miss Cross wipes her eyes and sighs: "Gee!
Ain't it fun to laugh!" and Eleanor and I look pleased with ourselves.

In the paper this morning appeared a picture of one of New York's
leading society women "experiencing the life of the working girl first
hand." She was shown in a French bonnet, a bunch of orchids at her
waist, standing behind a perfumery counter. What our table did to Mrs.
X!

"These women," fusses Miss Cross, "who think they'll learn what it's
like to be a working girl, and stand behind a perfumery counter!
Somebody's always trying to find out what it's like to be a
worker--and then they get a lot of noteriety writin' articles about
it. All rot, I say. Pity, if they really want to know what workin's
like, they wouldn't try a laundry."

"She couldn't eat her breakfast in bed if she did that!" was my
cutting remark.

"Or quit at three," from Annie.

"Hisst!" I whisper, "I'm a lady in disguise!" And I quirk my little
finger as I drink my coffee and order Eleanor to peer without to see
if my limousine waits.

We discuss rich folk and society ladies, and no one envies or is
bitter. Miss Cross guesses some of them think they get as weary flying
around to their parties and trying on clothes as we do in the laundry.
I guess she is partly right.

Then we discuss what a bore it would be not to work. At our table sit
Miss Cross, Edna (Miss Cross calls her Edner), the Cuban girl, who
refused to eat with the colored girls; Annie, the English girl, who
had worked in a retail shoe shop in London; Mrs. Reilly, who is always
morose at lunch and never speaks, except one day whe