The Conflict [10]
because they can think of nothing else to fill in the gaps.
Many of Jane's ways made Sister Martha uneasy. For Martha, while admitting that Jane through superior opportunity ought to know, could not believe that the ``right sort'' of people on the other side had thrown over all her beloved formalities and were conducting themselves distressingly like tenement-house people. For instance, Martha could not approve Jane's habit of smoking cigarettes--a habit which, by one of those curious freaks of character, enormously pleased her father. But--except in one matter--Martha entirely approved Jane's style of dress. She hastened to pronounce it ``just too elegant'' and repeated that phrase until Jane, tried beyond endurance, warned her that the word elegant was not used seriously by people of the ``right sort'' and that its use was regarded as one of those small but subtle signs of the loathsome ``middle class.''
The one thing in Jane's dress that Martha disapproved-- or, rather, shied at--was her riding suit. This was an extremely noisy plaid man's suit--for Jane rode astride. Martha could not deny that Jane looked ``simply stunning'' when seated on her horse and dressed in that garb with her long slim feet and graceful calves encased in a pair of riding boots that looked as if they must have cost ``something fierce.'' But was it really ``ladylike''? Hadn't Jane made a mistake and adopted a costume worn only by the fashionables among the demi-mondaines of whom Martha had read and had heard such dreadful, delightful stories?
It was the lively plaid that Miss Hastings now clad herself in. She loved that suit. Not only did it give her figure a superb opportunity but also it brought out new beauties in her contour and coloring. And her head was so well shaped and her hair grew so thickly about brow and ears and nape of neck that it looked full as well plaited and done close as when it was framing her face and half concealing, half revealing her charming ears in waves of changeable auburn. After a lingering--and pardonably pleased--look at herself in a long mirror, she descended, mounted and rode slowly down toward town.
The old Galland homestead was at the western end of town--in a quarter that had become almost poor. But it was so dignified and its grounds were so extensive that it suggested a manor house with the humble homes of the lord's dependents clustering about it for shelter. To reach it Jane had to ride through two filthy streets lined with factories. As she rode she glanced at the windows, where could be seen in dusty air girls and boys busy at furiously driven machines-- machines that compelled their human slaves to strain every nerve in the monotonous task of keeping them occupied. Many of the girls and boys paused long enough for a glance at the figure of the man-clad girl on the big horse.
Jane, happy in the pleasant sunshine, in her beauty and health and fine raiment and secure and luxurious position in the world, gave a thought of pity to these imprisoned young people. ``How lucky I am,'' she thought, ``not to have been born like that. Of course, we all have our falls now and then. But while they always strike on the hard ground, I've got a feather bed to fall on.''
When she reached Martha's and was ushered into the cool upstairs sitting room, in somehow ghastly contrast to the hot rooms where the young working people sweated and strained, the subject persisted in its hold on her thoughts. There was Martha, in comfortable, corsetless expansiveness--an ideal illustration of the worthless idler fattening in purposelessness. She was engaged with all her energies in preparing for the ball Hugo Galland's sister, Mrs. Bertrand, was giving at the assembly rooms that night.
``I've been hard at it for several days now,'' said she. ``I think at last I see daylight. But I want your opinion.''
Jane gazed absently at the dress and accompanying articles that had been assembled with so much labor. ``All right,'' said she. ``You'll look fine and dandy.''
Martha twitched. ``Jane,
Many of Jane's ways made Sister Martha uneasy. For Martha, while admitting that Jane through superior opportunity ought to know, could not believe that the ``right sort'' of people on the other side had thrown over all her beloved formalities and were conducting themselves distressingly like tenement-house people. For instance, Martha could not approve Jane's habit of smoking cigarettes--a habit which, by one of those curious freaks of character, enormously pleased her father. But--except in one matter--Martha entirely approved Jane's style of dress. She hastened to pronounce it ``just too elegant'' and repeated that phrase until Jane, tried beyond endurance, warned her that the word elegant was not used seriously by people of the ``right sort'' and that its use was regarded as one of those small but subtle signs of the loathsome ``middle class.''
The one thing in Jane's dress that Martha disapproved-- or, rather, shied at--was her riding suit. This was an extremely noisy plaid man's suit--for Jane rode astride. Martha could not deny that Jane looked ``simply stunning'' when seated on her horse and dressed in that garb with her long slim feet and graceful calves encased in a pair of riding boots that looked as if they must have cost ``something fierce.'' But was it really ``ladylike''? Hadn't Jane made a mistake and adopted a costume worn only by the fashionables among the demi-mondaines of whom Martha had read and had heard such dreadful, delightful stories?
It was the lively plaid that Miss Hastings now clad herself in. She loved that suit. Not only did it give her figure a superb opportunity but also it brought out new beauties in her contour and coloring. And her head was so well shaped and her hair grew so thickly about brow and ears and nape of neck that it looked full as well plaited and done close as when it was framing her face and half concealing, half revealing her charming ears in waves of changeable auburn. After a lingering--and pardonably pleased--look at herself in a long mirror, she descended, mounted and rode slowly down toward town.
The old Galland homestead was at the western end of town--in a quarter that had become almost poor. But it was so dignified and its grounds were so extensive that it suggested a manor house with the humble homes of the lord's dependents clustering about it for shelter. To reach it Jane had to ride through two filthy streets lined with factories. As she rode she glanced at the windows, where could be seen in dusty air girls and boys busy at furiously driven machines-- machines that compelled their human slaves to strain every nerve in the monotonous task of keeping them occupied. Many of the girls and boys paused long enough for a glance at the figure of the man-clad girl on the big horse.
Jane, happy in the pleasant sunshine, in her beauty and health and fine raiment and secure and luxurious position in the world, gave a thought of pity to these imprisoned young people. ``How lucky I am,'' she thought, ``not to have been born like that. Of course, we all have our falls now and then. But while they always strike on the hard ground, I've got a feather bed to fall on.''
When she reached Martha's and was ushered into the cool upstairs sitting room, in somehow ghastly contrast to the hot rooms where the young working people sweated and strained, the subject persisted in its hold on her thoughts. There was Martha, in comfortable, corsetless expansiveness--an ideal illustration of the worthless idler fattening in purposelessness. She was engaged with all her energies in preparing for the ball Hugo Galland's sister, Mrs. Bertrand, was giving at the assembly rooms that night.
``I've been hard at it for several days now,'' said she. ``I think at last I see daylight. But I want your opinion.''
Jane gazed absently at the dress and accompanying articles that had been assembled with so much labor. ``All right,'' said she. ``You'll look fine and dandy.''
Martha twitched. ``Jane,