It was not until Win had been in New York for a month that the influence of Miss Seeker’s words made itself felt, and the Hands gave their twitch at the hem of her dress.  They had been on her mind often enough during the four weeks—­morning, noon, and night—­but she had never known that she was physically within touching distance.

The “happy omen” of getting her passage to New York free had stopped working on the Monarchic.  Since then bad luck had walked after her and jumped onto her lap and purred on her pillow, exactly like a cat that persistently clings to a person who dislikes it.  All the positions which she was competent to fill were filled already.  Only those she could not undertake seemed to be open.  She tried to sing, she tried to teach, she tried to report news, she tried to be a publisher’s reader, and to get work in a public library.  She tried to make hats, she tried to act, but nobody wanted her to do any of these things, unless, perhaps, she went away and trained hard for a year.  When matters began to look desperate, and not till then, she applied to Nadine.

But Lady Darling had gone back to England, and Miss Sorel, not having recovered her health after the great tossing at sea, had been replaced by a brand-new American manageress.  No more models were wanted.  There was nothing that Miss Child could do, and the only result of her visit was delight in the heart of Miss Devereux because “that queer Child girl was laughing on the wrong side of her mouth.”  The new manageress was so preoccupied in manner and so sure that Miss Child’s services would not be needed that Win did not even leave her address.  Besides, as it happened, she had given Miss Hampshire “notice,” and had not yet found another boarding-house.

“I think I ought to try to get into a cheaper place,” she explained.  And that was a reason; but another, just as important, was pretty Miss Seeker’s jealousy because Mr. Loewenfeld talked too much to the English girl at the table.

After all, the best that Win could accomplish after three days’ dismal search was a saving of two dollars a week.  For eight dollars she secured a fourth-story back hall bedroom half as big and half as clean as Miss Hampshire’s, and she laughed aloud to find herself feeling desperately homesick for the “frying pan.”  For Win could still laugh.

It was counting her money, the day after a servant at the new boarding-house stole twenty dollars, that whisked Miss Child’s skirt within reach of the Hands.  Things could not go on like this.  She must get something to do at once—­no matter what.  Another girl in that house bought newspapers for the sake of the employment notices.  Winifred borrowed the papers and answered many of the most attractive offers in vain.  Next she tried the less attractive ones.  When they were used up—­and she also—­she came down to what she called bed rock.

In bed rock were advertisements of several large stores for extra help through the holiday season.  Of these Peter Rolls’s store was at the head.  “The Hands want hands,” was part of the appeal, and Win instantly turned to something else.  It was not until she had applied for work at six other shops, and found herself too late at all, that it began to seem faintly possible for her to think of going to Peter Rolls’s father’s store.